


Jeremiah Valeska: Limetown survivor

by HerDarkReflection



Category: Gotham (TV), Limetown (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Brotherly Love, Jeremiah is an unreliable narrator, Jerome Valeska is his own warning, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Selina is a Badass, skewed perception, spoilers for Limetown season 1, story is not compliant with Limetown cannon beyond maybe the first season
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerDarkReflection/pseuds/HerDarkReflection
Summary: A Crossover/AU in which Jeremiah Valeska was not simply sent away to be adopted by the rich Wilde family when he was a child, but was the youngest of Limetown’s implanted subjects.On the run from both those who intend to erase all evidence of a shady, covert experiment into technologically-enabled telepathy as well as his relentless perception of the thoughts of others' minds, Jeremiah never left the protective solace of his maze. For ten years he remained hidden from the world as the reclusive savant “Xander Wilde”, the identity that he was assigned by his not-so-trusted rescuer Lenore following the event referred to among survivors simply as The Panic.That was how he planned to continue surviving, until Jerome unknowingly exposed him by tracking his estranged twin down just as he did at the end of Gotham season 4.This story explores the canon-divergent domino effect that occurs as a result.





	1. Episode One: Xander Wilde

 

Jeremiah fled from the two contrasting blurs of mismatched emotions and fractured impulses exuded by his pursuers toward the colorful neon sign that marked the end of his maze. He was so preoccupied with trying to disregard the unpleasant impressions that he didn’t register the more dangerous mind lying in wait around the next corner until it was too late. Jeremiah let out a small, startled gasp, flinching away a second or so before the action made outward sense.

“Hello, Brother,” Jerome’s gravelly voice greeted, full of sadistic glee as he stepped around the drab, concrete corner, gun raised to point at his twin’s head. Jeremiah was shaking like a leaf and he could feel the minor rush of his dark alternate’s gratification reveal the instant when he noticed. Jeremiah turned his head, pretending out of habit that he wasn’t acutely aware of every presence around him. Lenore had drilled that behavior into him repeatedly, and Ecco’s presence had reinforced it too well for him not to. He stared into Jerome’s wide, predatory grin, then internally berated himself when he saw it falter. There was a spark of curiosity in regards to Jeremiah’s failure to be as frightened as a normal person ought to be. Unfortunately, after the absolute, world-ending horror and trauma of so many others’ painful deaths screaming through his being on the night that obliterated Jeremiah’s childhood, fear had become as elusive to him as anxiety was inescapable.

 _Excited. Smug. Wrathful. Expectant…_ Jerome’s emotions and abstract thought-forms rolled off of him in a characteristic torrent.

“So, how ya’ been? Oh, you look great!” Jerome punctuated his incongruous greeting with an eruption of his trademark laugh. “And to think, I used to be the handsome one!” he quipped, forcing another laugh at his own joke.

_Nervous._

“You should have stayed in your cell,” escaped as barely more than a whisper.

That got a sarcastic eye-roll from the more murderous twin, but his smile didn’t shift in the slightest.

“How did you find your way to me?” Jeremiah inquired managing a hoarse, yet more audible voice. He pursued the answer he wanted with a vague enough wording to present the question that was expected of him. Lenore’s damned unshakable training was still compelling the condemned to hide in plain sight.

“Oh, Bro,” Jerome replied, sounding just as disappointed by him as he was within himself. It was just for show. “We may not look the same anymore but we still _think_ the same.” Jeremiah’s marred mirror image reached out to jab at his forehead for added effect.

“How I wish that were true,” Jeremiah muttered with dry resignation, finally able to gather enough wherewithal to lift the veil ever-so-slightly for a moment in reaction to their contact.

Jerome’s eyes narrowed at first, but his mind easily dismissed the soft spoken regret as a subtle insult. “You know I always used to see you drawin’ those stupid things when we were kids--”

“You paid attention,” Jeremiah recited the rest of his thought for him, realizing that after all those years of running and hiding he actually wanted to be found. He wanted to see what Jerome would do with the truth if he knew. Once again, his twin’s narrowed eyes caught on his own; he was finally starting to become unsettled.

 _Uncertainty. Denial. Interest…_ None of it was visible in Jerome’s expression, but Jeremiah was soaking it in. Emil had once confided in child-Jeremiah about his suspicions regarding twins. The adult now wondered if maybe he would’ve liked to have seen them confirmed, probably not like this. Jerome was looking past him, ordering his underlings to deal with the Detective and his partner. He was still outwardly calm and in control, then his glinting eyes locked onto Jeremiah’s.

“You know, I have been waiting for this day for _fifteen_ years, ever since you ran away in the night like a coward,” Jerome accused in a falsely amiable manner, leaning against the wall with his gun arm. He allowed his weapon to hang, pointed harmlessly at the floor. Beyond the facade his eyes were still studying Jeremiah’s face unblinkingly. There was an unspoken question hidden in his words.

“I do,” Jeremiah answered, rebellious; what did he have left to lose anyway? The stoic admission startled real laughter out of his estranged brother. His next words silenced it, “I know that you blame me. I know that I’ve earned some of that blame, but the truth is: Jerome, you’re still a murderer. No one made you kill our mother but you,” his voice trembled over the last sentence.

_Rage. Denial..._

“Right, right, so your lies had nothing to do with it, huh?” Jerome interrogated flatly, anger overtaking the motley jumble of other signals. “Like how you made Mom think I was tryin’ to kill you. What was it? I know! I held a blade to your throat!” he mock-guessed, gesturing with his gun in a casual act of intimidation. “No, no. That wasn’t it. Oh! I tried to light you on fire!”

“I knew you wanted to,” Jeremiah pointed out, his tone bitter, vicious and jaded. “It was only a matter of time.”

 **_Hurt._ ** _Sorrow._ What?

Jeremiah stared, mouth agape in shock. “I don’t understand…”

Jerome was trying to figure him out. Wounded, perplexed, and furious as ever, he snapped “Understand what? You were the one tellin’ stories!”  
“You wanted me dead! You did, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here! So why don’t you fe--” Jeremiah’s mouth snapped shut so fast they both heard his teeth click against each other. He suddenly wasn’t so sure that he wanted Jerome to know after all. Paradoxically, now that the moment had arrived, he realized that he needed to believe that one of them could make it out of this alive.

The rictus grin returned to Jerome’s face but it now belied something so much more unsettling and dangerous. “Sorry, what was that?” He cupped his ear with his free hand in a cartoonish parody of his own rapt interest, then purred out, “Finish your sentence, Brother.”

In an instant, Jeremiah was back in the midst of the mind-shattering panic that featured in his every nightmare. He was a small body curled tight in terror under his bed, clinging to a torn teddy bear while the massacre below overwhelmed his perception. It was the sudden gaping void where his new mom and dad were supposed to be, crackling fire and scorched flesh, the pounding of Lenore’s combat boots charging up the stairs to smuggle him out. Jeremiah hadn’t realized that his knees had buckled until he felt the vice-like hold of Jerome’s muscular arm clenching his waist.

“Okay. Qu’est ce que le fuck?” Jerome demanded half in jest, only to be startled by his own unexpected use of corrupted French -- a problem for another time.  Twins, Jeremiah’s mind supplied with detachment.

He gasped in too-thin gulps of air, as if drowning on dry land. His glasses slipped down his nose to hang at a strange angle.

“Do it, Jerome. Finish it, now!” It was meant to be an order but the words were nearly smothered by his panicked attempts to draw in oxygen. The maze was spinning around him so he squeezed his eyes shut and anchored his mind to his twin’s.

“Nah, I think I’d rather have an explanation first. ‘Kinda ruins the fun if you get to decide when you go,” Jerome pontificated, radiating subtle but genuine traces of concern that only complicated matters.

“You’ve already killed me, Jerome. I’m just not dead yet. Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to go down with me,” Jeremiah rasped out in warning, having barely managed to wrestle himself back under a semblance of control. Another electric thrill of fear and adrenaline was rapidly closing on them from farther into the maze. It unbalanced the figurative tightrope walk of mastering his mind’s eye all over again. “Must go, must…” Jeremiah mumbled deliriously, fighting to regain equilibrium. Jerome frowned down at him only to tense when another voice met his ears.

“Must go! Must go! They’re after me and the Scarecrow!” Jervis Tetch yelled as the two criminals fled towards the exit.

“Look at ‘t this way. You c’n see ‘t’s too late to drive me mad.” Jeremiah was beginning to drift in and out.

“Yeah... Thing is, I didn’t let you in on that part of the plan yet,” Jerome corrected, taking the insanity of the implications of his observation in stride. Then again, why wouldn’t he? The Detectives were nearing them, filled with determination.

Jeremiah muttered out a curse as the darkness of unconsciousness swallowed him up.

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce Wayne strode purposefully into Gotham City’s Police Station and headed toward Captain Gordon’s office. He had to figure out Jerome’s game and how to stop it -- and he wanted to know what Xander Wilde had to do with it. He admitted privately to himself he’d been letting people down a lot more than he’d like lately; he didn’t want to add Xander Wilde to that list before they’d even met. Those dark thoughts distracted him, causing him to walk right into another visiting civilian. The other young man was nearly knocked off his feet by their impact, his taller, graceful, trembling form struck Bruce as deceptively fragile. Luckily, the billionaire’s lightning-fast reflexes and battle-forged strength allowed him easily to catch the auburn-haired stranger by the arms, supporting him upright.

“Whoa.” Bruce kept his grip on the other man’s forearms a little longer just to be certain he wasn’t about to keel over. Quickly, he suppressed his bafflement when he looked up into an impossibly familiar face. “My apologies, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He smoothed over his slip by focusing on the mundane, noticing the other young man’s pallor. “Are you alright?”

Jerome’s less intimidating double shook his head shyly. “It was my fault. Thank you for the quick rescue. I think without it I would’ve fallen flat on my face.” His voice was as soft and nonthreatening as a kitten’s purr. Bruce tried and failed not to be charmed by it.

“Are you sure? You look rather pale,” the younger boy observed. He saw the taller young man freeze, fleetingly evoking a doe caught in the headlights of a truck.

“That’s what you notice about my appearance?” he questioned, timid and ready to bolt. “You don’t find my appearance familiar.” Bruce wasn’t certain what the other was testing for but whatever it was he figured honesty was the best policy.

“I’m familiar enough with Jerome Valeska to know that you are not he. I wasn’t aware that he had an identical twin, although I expect that was intentional on your part?” He offered his hand for said identical twin to shake. “Bruce Wayne, and I assume you must be Xander Wilde. I wish we could have met under less unfortunate circumstances.”

“It’s-- uh-- it’s an honor to meet you,” Jeremiah accepted the hand shake, confessing “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Wayne, I doubt that we would’ve met any other way.” He cast his gaze about their crowded surroundings. “That-- I don’t mean to offend. I’ve made it a point to avoid… everyone.”

“I believe I understand. You won’t have reason to fear for much longer. Rest assured, your brother will be brought to justice.”

Mr. Wilde’s brows furrowed ever so delicately but before he could pursue Bruce’s obscure statement, Jim Gordon’s voice cut across the bullpen. “Bruce! Mr. Valeska, good to see you on your feet,” he beckoned them over to join him in his office, missing or perhaps simply overlooking Mr. Wilde’s flinch at the sound of his birth name. Jim plastered on a strained smile to address Bruce first, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see how your investigation into Jerome and his connection to Mr. Wilde is going,” Bruce answered, making a point to distinguish the two as entirely separate entities. It did seem to put his new acquaintance more at ease. The somewhat sickly-looking man dropped heavily into the chair facing Jim’s desk, leading Bruce to suspect that he’d been having more trouble standing than he let on.

“I thought I warned you to stay out of this. Jerome is dangerous! I don’t want you anymore involved in the hunt for Valeska than you have to be,” Jim told his young friend sternly.

“I understand your opinion on the issue, Captain Gordon. I feel compelled to remind you that that didn’t stop you from coming to Wayne Manor yesterday to demand access to my father’s records,” Bruce responded, calm and collected.

Jim’s face hardened. “That was a necessary request.”

“With which I complied, therefore involving myself in the outcome.”

Bruce had already acted out this argument in his head a few times during his drive into town and Jim was responding predictably. Mr. Wilde’s lips quirked in a tiny smile. He folded his arms on the desktop and buried his face in the makeshift pillow; the poor man was clearly exhausted. Bruce and Jim were running through virtually the same conversation Bruce had imagined; he was even winning this version.

“Hey, Valeska 2.0.” Detective Bullock nudged the hunched redhead’s shoulder. “You awake?”

“Harv,” Detective Gordon chastened. “Go easy on him; the guy probably has a concussion.”

“Yeah, yeah, cry me a river, Jimbo. I don’t trust either of these freaks as far as I can throw ‘em.” Harvey punctuated his judgmental words by taking a huge bite of his cheese Danish.

“Doesn’t mean you have to be an ass,” Jim Gordon retorted with an even more patently fake smile. He was having a rough day too, it seemed.

Mr. Wilde blearily sat up and put his glasses back on, looking helplessly lost.

“That’s my seat,” Bullock bantered back, gesturing with his paper-wrapped pastry.

“Forgive me if I am mistaken, Detective Bullock, but isn’t that your desk out there?” Bruce intervened, courteous despite the degree to which the policeman’s casual bullying was getting on his nerves.

“With a small sigh, Mr. Wilde carefully picked himself up from his diminutive slump to vacate the rowdy Detective’s seat of choice.

“If Mr. Wayne is almost done here. I would like to request a ride back to my bunker. I’m sure you would all prefer to have me out of your way,” he suggested tentatively, straightening his already straight glasses in what Bruce recognized as a nervous habit.

“I’m sorry, Mr--” Jim began.

“Wilde, please _\--sorry--_ I haven’t been part of the Valeska family for a very long time.”

“Mr. Wilde, then,” Jim amended. “Given the current circumstances I can’t in good conscience release you from police custody at this time. Once we have the manpower on hand I can pass you over to witness protection, but that is going to take a couple of hours.”

“I need to go home.”

“I understand how you feel--”

Mr. Wilde let out a sardonic scoff and muttered “You cannot possibly,” almost too quietly for anyone to hear.

“Listen, I know this situation is stressful. The fact remains that your brother and his goons already got through your maze once; your bodyguard is going to be under observation at Gotham General for at least another night and my people need time to prep a safe-house,” Jim countered with a warning underlying his carefully tempered voice.

“I can’t stay here that long,” was the swift, quietly spoken rebuttal.

“If I may, Captain Gordon, Mr. Wilde is welcome to stay at Wayne Manor until other arrangements can be made,” Bruce was happy to offer. It would be an excellent opportunity to gain more insight into the mind of his enemy. Aside from that, he felt the same utter certainty that he’d experienced when he saw Selina for the first time. He and this soft spoken, reclusive man had always been destined to meet.

Jim opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, thinking it over.

“I don’t want to impose…” Mr. Wilde said, uncertain. He looked braced to dart at the first sign of assent anyway, obviously desperate to get out.

“It’s no problem at all, this won’t be the first time that I have agreed to shelter a witness in my home,” Bruce assured him. “My butler, Alfred, served as a soldier in the British S.A.S. He should be more than equipped to ensure that you will remain safe during your stay.”

Mr. Wilde looked from Bruce to the police Captain, waiting for his confirmation.

Jim nodded, “Fine. I’ll call in a few hours about sending a patrol car to guard the gate.”

“That will be acceptable,” Bruce affirmed, looking to his new guest to see that he was already putting on his jacket to leave. “We’ll get out of your way, then. Goodbye, Detectives.”

Jim gave a stiff nod. As he was shutting the office door behind him, Bruce caught one last scrap of conversation from Harvey.

“Mr. _Wilde_ , eh? What did I tell ya?”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a refreshing, if uncourteous, experience for Jeremiah to arrive at Wayne Manor to instant awareness that the Butler wanted nothing to do with him. It had given him the freedom to hide away in blessed solitude for a couple hours before Bruce came looking for him. Jeremiah was lying flat on his back on a couch in the mansion’s library in a rejuvenating trance. The door drifted open, allowing the billionaire’s raven head to peek in.

“Xander?” he questioned in a hushed voice.

Jeremiah opened his eyes. “Yes, Bruce, I’m awake.”

“I did not intend to disturb you.”

“You didn’t,” Jeremiah told him. “Please, join me.” He pushed himself up to sit with perfect posture against the soft leather cushion. “I wanted to thank you again; it seems that you keep coming to my rescue.”

“Jim and Detective Bullock can be gruff, but I know them both to be good men. I would hardly characterize allowing you to come here as a rescue,” Bruce humbly disagreed.

Jeremiah shrugged one shoulder. The other one felt sore… Oh no, not _his_ shoulder. “Everyone tends to see my brother when they look at me, aside from Ecco and now you. You may not think you were saving me but you did.” He felt so relaxed and safe around the younger man that he answered his yet unspoken question before he could catch himself. “I was meditating. It helps with the… anxiety.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I have always found the practice to be fascinating. May I ask where you learned this form of meditation?”

“When I was a child-- after I was taken-- I had trouble controlling myself,” Jeremiah answered, overlaying the truth with vague veils of deception. “My foster parents were looking for a way to make it so that I wouldn’t need as many pills. They called in a favor from a guard they knew, Daniel, to get me sessions with a well-respected man in our town. He taught me how to take control of my perception. This is the most effective of the methods that he passed on to me.”

“A respected man?” Bruce questioned with a trace of unease in his tone, even as he tried to keep it light. His attention had snagged on the words “control myself” and “so many pills.”

“I don’t really like to talk about him,” Jeremiah admitted. “Our association made me stand out when I was a kid. I guess avoiding it has become a habit by now.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine, but I was slow to develop. I needed guidance; that’s what I was given,” Jeremiah explained, tilting his head side to side in response to Bruce’s continued skepticism. “Bruce, I slept with a stuffed animal until I was thirteen and I didn’t have any friends my age until Ecco--You know, my bodyguard? They weren’t exactly wrong about me. My birth family-- I don’t believe in magic but if I did I’d call us cursed. There’s something wrong with us. Now I understand that that was probably what made me interesting to him, but my foster family was honestly doing the best they could to help me. I get… overwhelmed by other people.”

“Alright,” Bruce held up his hands, deciding to relent. They barely knew each other yet.

Jeremiah stifled a smile in response to the promise of “yet”.

“How does it work?”

“This method centers mostly on practicing acceptance: find a position that’s comfortable enough to last awhile; close your eyes and turn your focus inward; send your mind into each part of your body and catalogue every sensation therein, making your way up and out, and let everything else pass through you.”

Bruce looked at him askance.

Jeremiah shrugged it off. “A basic summary. From there it gets tougher to explain. How do _you_ do it?”

* * *

 

On the lonely dirt road that connected Penguin’s inherited mansion to the distant woods around Jeremiah’s bunker-maze, a large, muscular silhouette slunk from shadow to shadow. Butch had been keeping an eye on it from the cover of Penguin’s black Cadillac. If he didn’t know better he could swear the other could tell when he was looking, but the cover of night made that impossible. The spy had been lingering on the periphery for a while, scoping them out. It gave Butch a sour feeling in his gut.

His foreboding only intensified when he ventured inside to report the problem to Cobblepot and saw the way Jerome straightened from his lean against the mantelpiece. The madman’s penetrating gaze had turned to him with frightening intensity. The freak knew something they didn’t. As far as Butch could tell that could only mean bad news.

 

* * *

 

Jeremiah made a point of turning his back on his decidedly unwelcome visitors to pour himself a generous glass of Cognac. He had been allowed to head back to his bunker under police guard, with Bruce tagging along behind him-- not that Jeremiah minded that last part.

“I watch the news. I know why you’re here, Captain Gordon,” he intoned, allowing a fraction of his true agitation to show.

 _Calm. Mild disappointment. Vigilance._ Bruce wasn’t too bothered by his moody rebellion; so Jeremiah didn’t care to censor it. The others could go screw themselves at this point as far as he was concerned.

“And you must be out of your mind to think that I am going to be led like a lamb to the slaughter!” he added, secretly enjoying the new freedom to act out his frustrations.

“I understand your concern but your brother doesn’t bluff,” Captain Gordon began.

Jeremiah cut him off before he could start any pointless monologuing “You’re going to explain Jerome to _me_ , Captain? You’re asking me to let him kill me because, once again, you’ve failed to put him in check. I would have to be brain-dead to trust you with my safety anymore!”

Captain Gordon placed a hand on the arm holding his liquor-filled glass, coaxing him into meeting the older man’s eye. “You have every right to be afraid.”

Jeremiah let out a small huff.

“Hey,” the Detective urged as if handling a cornered animal. It wasn’t too far off the mark. “I stopped him last time, didn’t I?”

Jeremiah swallowed the lump forming in his throat in response to the reminder of the last time he’d seen his maniacal twin.

Taking his hesitation as encouragement, Gordon hastened to explain his plan of action, “Lucius?”

“We can block his remote signal with this,” Lucius Fox pulled a metallic rectangle out of his coat and passed it over to the policeman.

“If you and Bruce can get within a few feet of him--”

Jeremiah let out a disgusted scoff, pulling away to take another fortifying drink.

“--it will disable his remote,” the stubborn man soldiered on. “We have snipers on the rooftops; once you take out his leverage they can take him down.”

 _A flicker of concern_.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Jeremiah placed his glass down on the drawing table with a harsh clack. “I will _not_ do this again!” The outburst was over before it dawned on him how his words could betray him. Limetown’s youngest implanted subject remained bent over his drawing table, eyes clenched shut, following his breath in and out in order to sustain necessary mental control.

_Worry. Sympathy. Doubt._

“Mr. Wilde,” Bruce’s careful, judgment-less voice drew Jeremiah back from the brink. He followed his mental anchor back to stability, opening his eyes.

“Yes, Bruce? Are you going to try to convince me now, too?”

“No,” his friend answered easily. He wasn’t giving off any impression to the contrary, so Jeremiah turned his head to regard him expectantly, willing to listen. The Wayne heir had rounded the table and was coming up on the opposite side of him from Gordon, eyes roaming over the schematics mounted to the wall.

“What is this you’re working on?” he inquired, his dark eyes finally turning to the scale model resting on the drawing board. “I don’t believe you had the chance to explain it to me yet.”

“I -- It’s a compact electrical engine. It generates power,” Jeremiah explained, beginning to calm, despite everything going on around them. It seemed that Bruce served as an even more effective anchor than Ecco. The two older men to their right were assessing their exchange, making assumptions about them both; Jeremiah barely cared.

“How much power will it generate?” Bruce was using certain terms on purpose, making clear his faith in Jeremiah’s ability to meet whatever goal he’d set out to accomplish. It reminded Jeremiah of Emil, eliciting a pang of loss that he probably didn’t deserve.

“Once completed, just two should be enough to power every building south of Westford Bridge.”

 _Admiration_. Jeremiah blushed.

Bruce looked at him in open approval. “You have a brilliant mind.”

Therein, lies the problem, Jeremiah thought silently to himself. It didn’t stop him from smiling self-consciously back.

“We all hope that we can soon be rid of your brother so that you can carry out your work in peace.”

Jeremiah felt the turn in his friend’s sentiments as the latter began his own entreaty.

“I will understand if you choose not to help us. I, myself, have come to trust Captain Gordon and Mr. Fox to ensure my safety,” Bruce made his appeal, looking so earnestly up into Jeremiah’s increasingly resigned face. “Even if they cannot and I perish in the attempt, I have to believe that maybe, by standing up to Jerome’s madness, I can show the people of Gotham-- that by refusing to bow to terror, we can take its power away.”

There was a pregnant pause. Jeremiah allowed himself a measure of cynical amusement that he could practically feel the others’ ‘bated breath as his own. He picked up his glass and finished off his drink in one long draw.

“Inspiring,” Jeremiah stated, setting down the empty glass and staring into it, expressionless. “You’ve just reminded me of someone. A lot of people wanted to follow him, too.”

“I thought you preferred not to interact with others,” Bruce studied the inscrutable mask Jeremiah had taken on, caught between a hopeful smile and a bemused scowl. He wanted to see the cryptic phrase as a good sign for their future.

“Where is he now?” Fox questioned, although Jeremiah could sense that he already dreaded the answer.

“Oh, they’re all dead,” he confirmed his guest’s fears, turning to refill his glass as Captain Gordon’s phone rang. “I would prefer to finish my invention before I’m forced to join them.” Jeremiah wanted to leave something of worth behind, if only to give his survival purpose.

“Harvey?” Jim listened to his partner’s report, growing even grimmer. “The gas! Penguin told me the Scarecrow had a new toxin. Head over to the lab. We’re headed for the square.” He hung up, needlessly repeating the news to the others, “Jerome’s got a new weapon: poison gas.”

Jeremiah let out a heavy, world-weary sigh and let his full glass drop the scant distance onto the tabletop with a crisp clink. He stood and blindly grabbed his jacket off its hook on the wall.

 _Sympathy_. Again.

“You aren’t going to die,” Bruce attempted to reassure him.

“Don’t,” Jeremiah interjected to spare them both and followed Detective Gordon out.

 

* * *

 

Jeremiah got out of the car and reeled almost instantly away from the oppressive wave of too many strangers’ _PANIC_ , _APPREHENSION_ , _UNCERTAINTY--_ A hand clamped around his bicep to steady him. This time it was Detective Gordon who’d reached out to him. That was unexpected.

“We’ll be watching you the whole time. You can do this,” he pronounced, confident in his plan. Jeremiah reminded himself not to question it.

He gave a curt nod and followed the Detective into the throng of people.

 _FEAR. EXCITEMENT. PAIN. SORROW. HUNGER. DISGU--_ Jeremiah clenched his jaw almost painfully tight and focused on only discerning the impressions from Bruce’s mercifully disciplined mind. _Determination. Nerves. Anger. Compassion. Optimism._ There; that was better.

“Hey, look who finally decided to show up! Things were startin’ to get a little tense up here, especially for this guy,” Jerome jabbed a thumb in the captive Mayor’s direction. The middle-aged blond woman strapped into the seat on his other side looked like she might be about to throw up. “Come on up! Will my guests of honor, pleeease, take your seats on stage?” The madman directed with theatrical flourish, his usually light accent briefly becoming heavier.

The two “guests of honor” exchanged one last speaking look, then began slowly to make their way forward through the mostly apprehensive crowd. One of the grungier-looking men beside Jeremiah brushed his fingers over the sleeve of the hostage-to-be’s sky blue trench coat. A _fan_.

AROUSAL, EXCITEMENT, BLOODLUST. Jeremiah choked on his own spit, frozen in place. Disgusting bursts of too intimate sensation leaked from the pervert into him, unwanted. He couldn’t stop it! He had lost his anchor.

“Come on… Don’t be shy,” Jerome cooed into the mic with his usual manic grin plastered onto his face. His attention snagged on his twin’s still, staring visage and didn’t release. “Oh, BROOOOTHER!” he sang _too_ _loudly_ into the mic, forcing a few of his fellow Horribles to clamp their hands over their ears against the feedback. It snapped Jeremiah back to reality with a startled lurch. “Get a move on. We don’t have all day.”

For a short while all Jeremiah focused on was his destination, keeping his attention locked on his brother’s scarred face. He begrudgingly anchored himself to the homicidal maniac.

“Hi, Brother,” Jerome taunted, grinning like a campy TV villain. Jeremiah answered by cocking his head from side to side with pure unspoken sarcasm; childish. His brother found it hilarious.

A series of loud shots shattered the air, making the crowd around them duck and cower in fear. Jeremiah flinched from the pain of each death, plagued by the hideous, cloying emptiness that reached out from each extinguishment. He took more time than the others to rise to his feet again, blinking with purpose to chase the void from his sight while Jerome explained to the cops how smart he was. He called them forward with overblown cheer. Jeremiah obeyed. He allowed himself to be ushered over to a chair and strapped into it, sat still while they collared him with a bomb to match everyone else’s.

Jerome was giving his captive audience some self-pitying spiel about his terrible childhood-- likely explaining how and why it was all Jeremiah’s fault-- while Bruce’s eyes burned a hole into the side of his head. _Worried_. Jeremiah wasn’t blinking; he was not quite in a meditative trance yet. Jerome whistled shrilly.

“Wakey, wakey!” Jerome snapped a few times in front of his face. Jeremiah finally roused himself back to their level of consciousness, trying to condense the staggering magnitude of how pissed he was with his idiotic, murderous, jackass of a brother into a single arch of his brow. “We’re talkin’ about you, Asshole! You might wanna pay attention.”

The showboating maniac addressed the crowd while dropping into the empty seat between Jeremiah and Bruce “Can you believe this guy? Anyway, little Mr. Perfect here, he got adopted by rich folks, went to the top schools and the top college. Meanwhile, I got to spend all that time shoveling elephant dung for the circus, getting dragged around by our depressed, alcoholic mother.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes at the rambling sob story, imagining a tiny violin playing comforting and apt music in the background. He stopped abruptly once he remembered who used to play it to him. Elephant dung, he thought bitterly, poor, whiny _baby_.

 _Anticipation_.

“But I know something that Mommy and Daddy never knew. You’re as crazy as I am,” Jerome purred, getting up and moving to stand over him like a predator waiting to pounce -- only, something was off… He didn’t _feel_ right. Jeremiah pulled against the bands trapping his wrists, watching his twin flip open a switchblade. Jerome leaned over him. “It’s in your DNA. We got the same blood runnin’ through us. We are practically identical.”

“No…” Jeremiah murmured, more out of uncertainty than a true response to his captor’s claims. Things weren’t matching up and he couldn’t fathom why.

 _Amusement. Annoyance. Impatience_ … Jerome wasn’t attacking. Jeremiah’s brows furrowed. His cheeky twin winked at him in the privacy of their close proximity. He cut each wrist strap with lazy flicks of his wrist and straightened up, grinning like a fool. Jeremiah was officially lost. He hazarded a sideways glance at Bruce. No help there. At least, he wasn’t the only one who was confused.

“Stop holdin’ yourself back,” Jerome told him in a low tone, meeting his bemused stare with utter sobriety. He pressed the knife into Jeremiah’s hand and it was back to the mercurial theatrics as if his strange lapse had never occurred. “You get one free hit, Smart Guy. Just let yourself go!” He raised his arms open wide too, welcoming the attack.

“I don’t want to kill anyone!” Jeremiah protested. His mind was racing to work through the odd and opaque mystery without anything to go on. His twin let out a fed up groan.

“Come on! Get with the program, Jere! Your time’s almost up now. Take your best shot!”

 _Frustration. Loneliness_. _Hope_.

Impossibly, amazingly, the pieces all fell into place. Jeremiah called on all his carefully bottled distress, fear and impotent rage and channeled it into an animal scream, charging at his brother. His knife-wielding hand was easily caught and twisted into submission mere inches short of Jerome’s neck. He heard a strangled gasp from one of the seats behind him.

“Ya shoulda' gone for the gut,” Jerome growled, freeing the knife from his twin’s faltering hold and sweeping it across Jeremiah’s throat in a messy crimson arc.

“NO!” he heard Bruce shout.

Bruce’s _Alarm. Horror. Desperation. Denial,_ ran through Jeremiah like an electric shock. He felt something sharp pierce his chest, bringing with it an unpleasant, numbing pressure. Jerome held his twin’s limp body close in a macabre mockery of a hug.

“Looks like I had the last laugh,” Jerome concluded straight into his ear, loud enough that everyone else onstage could hear it. He pressed a sloppy kiss to his now limp, unfeeling victim’s blood-flecked cheek. “Mwah! Oh well,” he dropped the body unceremoniously, turning away. “Moving on,” he gestured carelessly to two of the closest Horribles, ignoring Bridget's appalled stare. “Take ‘im down, pack him up, yada yada. I’m thinkin’ my new digs are gonna need some _creative_ decorations.”

“You’re even sicker than I thought,” Bruce said emptily, watching them drag his fleeting friend’s corpse away, as inscrutable as Jeremiah had been back in his work room.

Jerome staged a theatrical yawn.

“You psychopathic _monster_ ,” sobbed out the blond woman. “I hope they burn you alive for--”

Jerome’s grin vanished in the blink of an eye. He held up the detonator and pressed her button with overblown malice. Nothing happened. “Huh?” he scowled and shook the malfunctioning device, then hit the button over and over-- A bullet blew through his shoulder. “Ah, that makes sense.” Jerome wriggled across the floor, cackling maniacally. “Well, that’s my cue! See ya later Brucie!” he crowed and scampered away, cackling like a lunatic.


	2. Episode Two: Dead Man

 

Jim Gordon walked away from the public square. There were a number of lower ranking police and emergency personnel still bustling around, but it was mainly clean-up now. A uniformed officer brushed past, headed toward the stage. Their shoulders inadvertently jostled as they passed each other in opposite directions. The guy was so big that the impact almost knocked Jim off balance. The other man was built like a tank and half as massive. The Detective took a few more steps, slowing to a stop. All thoughts of getting back to his office were replaced by attempts to remember ever seeing the Deputy before. The recently appointed Police Captain had made it a point to get to know the people under his command; he would remember someone this physically imposing. Jim turned on his heel and retraced his steps, watching the man’s movements. One beefy hand reached up to tug the bill of his already downturned cap as he climbed the steps onto the stage. His head was tilted down and angled to block his face from view. The guy had a boxer’s build, easily 250 pounds of raw muscle, not too tall-- maybe slightly over average height. The suspect had reached the drying maroon pool of Jeremiah’s blood.

Jim strode closer at a cautious pace, observing the fake cop tilting his head to assess the scene, then kneel down to run his finger through the thickening fluid. Jim rested a hand on his holstered weapon, unfastening the snap. The suspect held his bloody finger up to his face to sniff it, then popped it into his mouth and let out a low semi-approving rumble.

Jim grimaced, making his way onto the platform, “Hey.”

The man’s weight shifted: subtle, preparatory. Jim knew that look from his time in Iraq: a killer’s instinct.

Jim looked at his name plate. “Deputy Marshall, isn’t it?” he challenged. His conversational tone vanished, “Looks like you’ve gained a couple inches.”

With impressive speed for such a large man, the fake cop surged to his feet, shoved Jim over the edge of the platform and charged backstage.

“Captain!” one of the _real_ deputies on scene exclaimed, running towards him, the first of three.

Jim pushed himself off the ground with a grunt. “I’m fine! I’m fine-- go! Stop him!” He waved towards the suspect’s point of escape. With only one momentary hesitation, the others darted after his attacker, guns drawn. Lucius jogged over to pull Jim to his feet.

“Any idea what that was about?” the forensic scientist inquired.

Jim frowned and placed both hands flat on the edge of the stage, hoisting himself up without an explanation. He eyed the the dark pool. Now that he looked at it, there was something not quite right about the consistency. It was slight enough that he wouldn’t have thought to question it if it hadn’t been for the mystery man’s finger-path failing to smooth out as it should have. As it dried, Jeremiah’s blood appeared to be becoming more syrupy. Now that the Detective thought about it…

“Hey, what time have you got?” he tested, running his finger through the misbehaving liquid in the same manner as the unknown suspect. “My watch reads about 6:35.”

Lucius checked his own watch. “I’m only two minutes ahead of you,” he reported calmly. “Why do you ask?”

Jim rubbed the sanguine fluid between his fingers, sniffed it, then touched it to the tip of his tongue-- much to his associate’s disgust.

“Captain Gordon?”

“Son of a _bitch_!” Jim growled, the “blood” tasted sickly sweet.

“Sir?”

“This wasn’t a murder. It was a kidnapping!”

“I see,” Lucius Fox replied, businesslike as ever; the gravity of the revelation was dawning on his face. “Would you like me to call in more support?”

“No. Call Harvey. Tell him to meet us in my office for a private briefing,” Jim told him standing and jumping offstage, “There’s more going on here that we can’t see yet. I don’t want it getting out that we’re onto Valeska’s game until we know who all the players are.”

“What about Bruce?”

Jim grimaced again, unhappily, and shook his head. He hated lying to the poor kid, but he knew it had to be done for his own protection.

* * *

 

_“There are two reasons for why I’m talking to you.”_

_“Okay,”_ Lia acknowledged.

_“First, is that Max deserved better. He just did. The second is that I am responsible for The Panic, and everyone should know what happened.”_

“Shut that off,” Jeremiah croaked out through a throat as dry as the Sahara. To his surprised relief, his words were answered promptly by the soft _thunk-clack_ of someone slapping the radio offline. He blinked his eyes open to an ornately-carved wooden ceiling. Jeremiah was lying on his back on the fine, velvet bedding of an expensive, redwood, four-poster bed. A wet dish towel flopped onto his face, thrown from somewhere on his left. With minor irritation, the not-so-dead-man picked it up and began wiping at the sticky red coating his neck. “How thoughtful.” He turned his head to see a smirking Jerome lounging with booted feet up on the velvet, wine-colored love-seat and an ungloved hand resting atop the radio. “You knew.”

Jerome grinned at his reclaimed twin. “Nah. I took a wild guess.” He pointed a finger at Jeremiah. “You’re just lucky that the weird kid is such a nerd!”

“Weird kid…” Jeremiah echoed distantly, still scoping out their unfamiliar surroundings.

“You tell me. Can’t you just -- I dunno, skim it off my mind or somthin’?” Jerome tested.

_Curiosity. Joy. Pride._

“It doesn’t work that way.” Jeremiah pushed himself up into a seated position, rubbing at the stiff muscles in his back. He swallowed the mild nausea from whatever paralytic the madman had injected him with. “Regardless, I have spent the last ten years doing everything I can not to. It’s _impossible_.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still catchin’ up on the broadcast,” Jerome admitted, eyeing the radio he’d just shut off with only a hint of frustration at missing the newest update. “But _you_ know things. I saw you before, remember?”

Jeremiah paused briefly to take stock but Jerome had burned his last bridge out of Dodge as soon as he enacted his fake murder scheme. “As I said, I can’t turn it off. A moderate amount of what I receive depends upon how compatible each consciousness is with mine. The more compatible, the clearer the signal. It’s like standing in a bustling crowd with no way to plug your ears. You can’t avoid the sounds and voices around you, the same way that you can’t simply turn off your ears. They had us take pills that helped us focus...”

“Why aren’t ya takin’ your pills?” Jerome questioned.

“Because The Panic was the end of everything. You’ve been listening to that reporter’s investigation. You’ve heard enough to guess the rest.”

“Nah, I’d rather hear it from you.”

Jeremiah ground his teeth, his schooled expression overtaken by a vicious grimace. “Scorched Earth, is what happened! The complete purging of the project is what happened-- and everything and everyone involved. We were _erased_ ! Emil managed to escape and disappear; he’s good at that. They took down the control group first. I was a ten year-old kid with absolute chaos tearing through my head; I couldn’t comprehend what was happening! Mom was terrified, agony, nothing. Dad was terrified, agony, nothing. People were burning alive and fighting and getting shot and beaten and running for their lives and I was in _all_ of them! One by one they were nothing. Not just gone. _Nothing_. I’m not sure there’s a way to describe it. Death is a void that living things are not equipped to come in contact with.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Jerome commiserated, a haunted look passing through his eyes. For once there was no mockery or jest, only a deep understanding shared by two men who had experienced something beyond the realm of understanding. They were two brothers who had faced something beyond what anyone would want to comprehend.

“It draws you in,” Jeremiah continued quietly, unwilling or unable to stop now that he’d breached that dam. “Some of the other implanted went out like that, too slow to pull away -- I can remember Daniel had just brought me home from one of my sessions. There was this loud bang. He shoved me into my bedroom and said to hide, to be very quiet and I would be okay. I’m _not_ okay. I died _over_ and _over,_ with Mom, and Dad, and the neighbors, and their dog, and the old lady in the shop who used to give me free candy and others I didn’t even know! I’ve died over a hundred times! Then Lenore dragged me out from under the bed; it was time to go. There were strangers, dissolving bodies in acid in some of the rooms they carried me past-- Didn’t even look up. I still don’t understand it. Maybe it was him.”

“You’re talkin’ about the Man--right?-- the one you were all there for?”

Jeremiah didn’t acknowledge the question, “I didn’t feel anyone except Lenore. They acted-- it was as if they couldn’t see us.” Jeremiah shifted, fiddling with his shirt cuff, buttoning and unbuttoning to keep grounded. “I was the youngest subject; it was because Emil had a plan for me-- or that’s what I was told. I guess maybe my early implantation is why I wasn’t as dependent on the pills as the others. Maybe that’s why she got me out.”

“So, without the pills?”

“You either find a work around or you’re… well, you’d be lucky to end up as a vegetable. I’ve witnessed what failure looks like… even you don’t want that image in your head.”

“Gee, thanks for the support, Bro,” Jerome sneered but the smile on his face wasn’t entirely fake. He wanted them to be together. A matching pair, Jeremiah recalled him saying. He was broken from the digression by Jerome’s gung-ho, “So! You never said: what’s the work around?”

“For me? I use an anchor.”

“Huh?”

“In Ballet, there’s this thing called Spotting. The dancer locks their gaze onto a fixed point and as they turn their body, they keep returning to that point. It helps them maintain balance,” Jeremiah explained. “I anchor myself to one mind in particular. I only bother with the thoughts and feelings that person gives off and everything else becomes background noise. They have to be compatible and stable enough or it can cause problems. I only use people I know that I can trust, unless I have no other alternative.”

Jerome scowled “What about that thing with Tetch? You were stealin’ his lines.”

“I was already vulnerable from before, then Ecco was knocked unconscious,” Jeremiah shrugged, as if the thought of the close call didn’t fill him with existential dread. “I was unmoored.”

Jerome stared at him in silence for a long moment; his face split in a shit-eating grin. “I’m your anchor now!”

“We are not discussing this.” Jeremiah sulked.

“You _trust_ me!” Jerome giggled giddily.

“Out of very few choices available--”

“Too late! You admitted it! No take backs!”

“Must you be childish?” Jeremiah rolled his eyes, allowing his insane sibling the petty victory. “There are more important issues at hand. Namely, Xander Wilde is dead; who will I be now?”

“Come on,” Jerome dismissed, treating the practical inquiry as if it were silly. “You’re Jeremiah, same as always.”

“Jeremiah Valeska died in Limetown ten years ago. You’ll have to try again,” Jeremiah rejected, fidgeting a little in discomfort.

Jerome tossed his head back and laughed. “You can’t be serious!”

“This isn’t a game, Jerome. The cleaners get to everyone in the end. The only way to elude them is not to exist at all,” Jeremiah bit out, his elocution becoming more precise in anger. “I had hoped that you would at least be intelligent enough to comprehend _that_.”

“Ooh! Someone’s feelin’ testy! Relax. No one knows you didn’t really bite it. I do have some experience with dyin’ on live television, ya’ know.”

Jeremiah relaxed, reading honesty in his twin’s words. “Ecco must be beside herself...”

“Eh, I’m sure Blondie can take it! She’s one tough cookie, dat’ one.” Jerome waved off his regret as though it were nothing. “Hey, I could eat! Come downstairs with me, we’ll see what Oswald’s got in the ol’ fridge.”

Jeremiah’s jaw clenched tightly. He glared at the spikey-haired imbecile, surging to his feet. “You allowed others to know that I’m still alive!?” he smacked his twin across the face and flinched in pain.

Chuckling at his folly, Jerome grabbed him by shoulders. “Wow! Haha! You’re like an instant karma magnet!” he laughed like an overgrown child, delighted by his new toy. “Hit me again!”

“ _No_.”

“Heeheehee!”

“Do you have _any_ idea--”

“Calm down, Zombie Bro. I allowed _one_ someone to know about the whole fake death thing, for uh…” He gestured cyclically. “What’s the word?”

“Expediency.”

Jerome clapped once. “Ha! Bingo! Anyway, my buddy Oswald’s lettin’ us stay here outta the kindness of ‘is little heart. He doesn’t know about all the black ops voodoo, so chill.” He smirked at Jeremiah’s sustained glower. “Yikes! Are ya always this tense? You need to learn to laugh more.” Shaking his head, the elder twin turned, blindly grabbing a fistful of Jeremiah’s shirtfront and towing him out behind him on his way to the kitchen.

* * *

 

Bruce sat at his desk staring into space. The file folder he’d been skimming was gripped open in his hands, forgotten. A memory haunted his conscious mind.

_He smelled cigarette smoke, following it out onto the balcony of his study. The lights in the room were off, leaving only the moonbeams peeking in where the curtains had been parted to light his way._

_“It’s a filthy habit,” Xander said, in lieu of a greeting, at the same moment that Bruce stepped out to join him. Bruce reasoned that he must be hyper-aware of his surroundings after his brother’s attack._

_“I don’t mind. I was merely curious as to where you had vanished so suddenly after dinner,” Bruce explained, moving to stand next to his guest at the railing, looking out onto the moonlit grounds._

_“I couldn’t resist,” Xander confided, as if confessing to a naughty misdeed. “You know, I haven’t been up to the surface like this in years. Having a smoke outside? I’d guess, it’s been about six years since I indulged in this kind of risky behavior.”_

_Bruce studied the taller man through his next deep drag from the cigarette._

_“I know what you’re thinking and, yes, Ecco absolutely hates it. The maze lounge is probably permanently tainted by the smell of my Crossroad Slims,” Xander explained with a bashful smirk. “Honestly, I still keep telling myself: this is the last one.”_

Bruce was supposed to be getting back on task, yet he was once again pondering the ironic prescience of that statement. Jerome’s murderous performance had been two days ago. It shouldn’t be this hard to move on, but when Bruce’s eyes landed on _that_ name in the document, Xander’s ghost haunted him nonetheless. Bruce had only known Xander Wilde for one night and one day, but he was still Bruce’s friend. Xander’s death was still Bruce’s fault; he had promised to protect him, only to lead him to his death. Bruce was so caught in his brooding that he didn’t notice the familiar silhouette slipping in through the windblown balcony curtains until she was leaning over the desk to meet his eyeline.

“Hey, Bruce,” Selina greeted louder than usual. Bruce jumped, then hastened to recover his wits, whipping the red file folder shut. “You good?”

“I’m fine. I was merely deep in thought,” Bruce covered.

“Okay.” She wasn’t buying it, but that was one of the nice things about Selina; she didn’t pry. Instead, she propped her hip against the edge of the desk and picked Xander’s glasses up off the desktop, fiddling idly with the frames. “You know, it’d be real easy to get these fixed. Just pop in a new lens and they’d be good as new.”

“It’s not as if Xander will ever need to use them again,” Bruce stated darkly, feeling the toxic, hateful rage simmering low in his gut.

“Oh, yeah. You’re doing just fine,” Selena sarcastically noted. “Listen, I’m sorry about your friend, but you can’t keep doing this. How long has it even been since you last went outside?”

“Did Alfred call you here?” Bruce answered her question with a question. He knew that she had already surmised the truth anyway.

“No, your Butler didn’t call me, but I can see why you’d think so. You’re not going to solve anything by sitting around brooding like this.”

“What is it that you came here to request of me?”

Selina’s expression turned cautionary, “ _And_ you are not taking this out on me. We both know who’s responsible for what happened on that stage!”

Bruce deflated, chastened.

“It was all Jerome,” Selina clarified, placing Xander’s cracked spectacles back on the desk with considerate care. “Actually, it’s Tabitha who needs _our_ help,” she admitted. “She called me all worked up ‘cause some thugs kidnapped Barbara. They’re demanding a lot of cash that we don’t have, and fast.”

“Oh,” Bruce found himself relieved to be faced with a problem that he could easily remedy. “How much?”

* * *

 

Jeremiah ran his hands through his newly dyed hair, appraising his final results in the mirror. The hyper-pigmented, midnight blue-black of the dye had interacted with the copper of his previous color to give his black hair a luminous, forest green tone when the light hit it just so. Its chemical darkness washed the warmth out of his already pallid face to the point of spectral fairness, bringing out the opalescence in his eyes. It gave him an overall ethereal appearance that he decided he could easily become accustomed to. Jeremiah found himself wondering what Ecco or Bruce would think of the new look. He eyed the ultra-saturated pattern of his acid-yellow silk tie and ostentatious, blue, bespoke suit. He might be too fey now for the overtly dogmatic, old money inheritor that was Bruce.

“Hmm. More’s the pity,” he drawled, deciding that he liked it even if the people he’d sadly never be able to see again wouldn’t agree. He had yet to pick a name. Usually, Jeremiah would leave that honor to his resident anchor, but he wasn’t dumb enough to give his brother that kind of opening. Speaking of, his mercurial twin’s boredom preceded him into the room.

Jerome stomped in through the doorway on darkly-scuffed, white work boots. “Hey Bro! What’s takin’ you so long?”

“I’m creating the new me,” Jeremiah drawled, contemplating the pros and cons of lipstick. “What do you want?” This latest escape of his was already a longshot; he figured it was either go big or go home at this point.

“New you, huh?” Jerome looked him up and down, following it up with a casual shrug. “Pretty.”

“Don’t try to ruin this for me,” the new Jeremiah intoned lightly. He pressed the “velvet cherry” embellishment between his lips with a soft pop before strolling past him out of the room “I like it.”

“What?!” Jerome reeled in mock offense, then hopped forward to walk in step with him. “I just said you were pretty! Look at ya! This has gotta count as some kind of entrapment.”

“Are you done?” Jeremiah sighed out, making sure to sound terribly bored by their entire exchange.

_Mild Amusement. Impatience. Restlessness._

“You still eat, don’ cha?” Jerome posed.

“Naturally.”

“So come an’ join your favorite brother and his best bud for a nice cooked meal?!” Jerome smacked his back a tad too hard, and Jeremiah did his best not to look unbalanced by it. “We missed ya at lunch.”

“You want me to dine with your pet mob boss,” Jeremiah intoned.

“Yeah, I do, so stop bein’ such a stick-in-the-mud an’ come meet ‘im. You two’ll get along just swell!”

“Fine. in exchange I want my cigarettes.”

“I told ya. Oswald says ‘no smoking in his house’.”

“I love him already.” Jeremiah followed Jerome down to a long, oak table overloaded with food. Jerome plopped down at the head of the table with the Penguin already seated to his right. Jeremiah pulled out the chair opposite and claimed his own seat at the table with far more civilized grace.

“Ooh, my favorite!” Jerome dragged a platter of garlicky smelling mashed potatoes towards himself with one gloved hand and began serving himself a generous amount. Jeremiah mutely observed this, feeling embarrassed on the glutton’s behalf.

 _Excitement. Hunger._ At least his anchor was in an altogether pleasant mood this afternoon.

“You must be Jerome’s brother,” Oswald politely engaged the new arrival.

“Duh,” Jerome remarked, grabbing up the gravy boat without taking his eyes off of his food.

“It’s such a pleasure finally meeting you! Jerome has told me so much about you!” Oswald gushed, trying to ingratiate himself.

“Whatever he’s told you is certain to have been wildly embellished,” Jeremiah replied, eyes locked on his brother’s attempts to drown a hastily formed potato man in an unreasonable amount of gravy. “I can only assure you that I’m not the heartless monster that he makes me out to be.”

Oswald’s mouth formed an almost comically shocked O. “To the contrary, Mr. Valeska. It is my understanding that your brother is very _proud_ of you!”

Jerome put the half-empty gravy boat down and reached over his brother’s empty plate to grab at the roast chicken. Jeremiah batted his hand away and passed the dish to him with a flat, unamused expression.

“For future reference, Jerome: a gentleman does not wear gloves to the dining table,” he drawled out passive-aggressively.

“Huh,” Jerome looked at him, taking a savage bite of his drumstick and chewing open-mouthed with an exaggerated thinking-face. “Great tip! I’ll keep an eye out an’ be sure to let ya know if I see one around.”

Jeremiah took a deep, steadying breath, resisting his twin’s violent tendencies clinging at the edges of his own irritation.

“Oh, wow! You gotta learn to relax,” Jerome gave him a rough pat on the cheek. “Go on, eat!”

Jeremiah swiped his napkin over his cheek, then cut himself a dainty portion of the meat being shoved towards him, and scooped himself a large portion of the barely touched green salad. He returned his attention to the saner of his two dining companions with a pleasant, closed-lipped smile.

“I have been meaning to thank you personally, Mr. Cobblepot. It is very kind of you to allow us to stay here under the current,” he gave his impolite twin the side-eye before continuing delicately “ _unusual_ circumstances.”

Oswald gestured humbly with his fork, his expression charitable. “Please, don’t mention it. What kind of friend would I be if I wasn’t here for you and your brother in this trying time? After all, family is the most precious thing we have in this life. Don’t you agree?”

It was an act, mostly. Jeremiah knew this man was as slick and slippery as his namesake. He smiled at the deviously sophisticated predator in their midst, taking advantage of his new doll-like appearance.

“Why, Mr. Cobblepot, I couldn’t agree more,” he purred, allowing the lingering temptation of his brother’s manic glee to simmer through his voice.

* * *

 

The metallic roar of Bruce’s heavily retrofitted Mustang reverberated around them in an illegally fast race towards their meeting point. Selina huffed softly, one arm casually propped against the passenger door.

“Don’t you have a stealth mode on this thing?” She addressed the sound grating at the hidden rawness of her nerves.

Bruce gave her a cocky glance and pulled up to the curb to access the dashboard-mounted menu, scrolling from Normal to Quiet in order to shift from the engine to the silence of the onboard electric motor. He quietly returned to their rapid course without a word.

Selina shook her head, “Show off.”

Bruce smirked.

“Hey, this is the place.”

Bruce smoothly coasted up to the curb to park in front of the darkened chapel. Selina turned to grab the suitcase full of cash, but his longer arm beat hers to it.

“I’ve got it.”

“I didn’t ask you to do this for me,” Selina defended.

“I’m not. I’m coming with you.” Bruce looked totally calm and centered. She knew him better than that. Selina relented with a soft huff; Bruce’s decision to tag along wasn’t unexpected.

“Fine. Whatever.” She marched in ahead of him and was immediately grabbed by a swooping, black clad-- woman judging by the feel-- the moment she stepped into the firelight of the main chamber.

“Selina!” Bruce dropped the case, quick to run to the rescue. Typical.

“No! Bruce, it’s a trap!” Selina shouted. Darkly hooded figures rose up from around the altar, surrounding him. The cloaked figures had him subdued in seconds. At least they weren’t killing him, yet.

Selina kicked and fought to free herself and help him, biting down hard on the gloved hand covering her mouth.

“Ow! Selina, stop! It’s me!” Tabitha objected, keeping her student pinned against her chest.

“Tabby? What the Hell?! What is this?!” Selina did not stop trying to wriggle loose, but her continued efforts were less violent.

“I’m sorry, Cat. I had no choice! Barbara’s in trouble! She’s got this _thing_ called the Demon’s Head. It’s gonna get her killed if we don’t get it out of her and these guys said they’d take it back.”

The men were dragging Bruce towards the open hollow of the altar.

“No… No, wait,” Bruce was just close enough to see what was inside. “Ra’s! You’re trying to bring him back!?”

“He’s the one who gave it to her. He can take it back,” Tabby reasoned.

“No! You have no idea what you’re doing! He _wanted_ to die! You can’t--” One of the cult members held up a large dagger. Bruce tried desperately to yank himself free, with no luck. “No! Listen to me!”

The larger men forced Bruce’s arm over the hollow and cut him with the dagger. His struggling finally abated as they chanted as one. He was giving up. Selina really wanted to punch someone.

“You have no idea what you’ve do--” One of the men pinning Bruce struck him over the back of the head, silencing him and dragged him over, dropping his unconscious body against the wall behind and to one side of Selina and Tabitha.

Whatever was inside the altar gripped the rim, hoisting himself out of his tomb. Selina wasn’t interested in “Ra’s” at the moment. The undead guy was scolding his minions while she and the sellout looked on, more-or-less unnoticed.

“You should’ve told me the truth.”

“If I did, you wouldn’t have come,” Tabitha argued.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t, because he’s my friend!” Selina spat.

“Then what am I? What about Barbara? Pick a side and stick with it,” the ex-assassin sneered.

Selina smirked through a barely existent nod, keeping her eyes on the crowd of weirdos. “Fine, that’s how you wanna do this?”

Bruce was stirring from his slump against the wall.

“The woman you gave the Demon’s Head to started a war!” one of the cult guys defended.

In a swift lash of his arm, the immortal gripped his underling’s throat. “ _I_ started that war!”

Selina was taking advantage of the perfect distraction with subtle, soundless steps back towards her injured friend.

“The League of Shadows was rotten!” Ra’s was monologuing. Selina tuned out everything beyond making sure the distraction continued.

“What do you mean _if_ she gives you the Demon’s Head? I thought we were doing all this stuff so you’d have it back!” Tabitha interrogated indignantly, drawing enough attention to freeze Selina mid-slink between the others and Bruce. She gripped the handle of her whip.

“No, Barbara must give it to me, willingly,” the mummy explained, striding worryingly closer. Bruce and Selina exchanged a conspiratorial look. Bruce grabbed her offered arm to pull himself up. Selina readied her whip with her free hand, pushing him behind her as they edged towards the exit. The others were still talking, but Selina was busy trying to decide which of the stalking assassins posed the most immediate threat.

“They’re trying to run! Kill them!” One announced making her decision easy. The assassins broke apart to give chase and Selina lashed out with her whip at anyone who dared to come too close.

“No! I want the boy alive!” Ra’s corrected as they burst out onto the street.

Tabitha was still hot on their tail when Bruce and Selina reached the car. “Wait!”

“Don’t try to follow me Tabitha!” Selina shot back, ducking into Bruce’s car just after him.

“Cat! He’s going to kill Barbara!”

Bruce looked at  his passenger askance. After meeting his gaze, she begrudgingly reopened her door to let Tabitha in. He knew Selina well, too, as pissed as she was, she didn’t want Barbara to die.

“Thank yo--”

“Shut up,” Selena commanded, refusing to look at the older woman. “Let’s get out of here.” Bruce was more than glad to oblige.

“Where exactly is Ms. Kean?” he inquired politely, once it was clear that Selena wasn’t going to.

* * *

 

It was an end to an early breakfast, and Jeremiah watched the subdued movements of the man across from him, enraptured as the older of the two criminals gave an almost poetic recounting of an attempt on his life by his petty ex-partner. He was beginning to feel he may have judged the little bird too quickly upon first meeting. They had more in common than he’d thought. Another flash of reflected light pierced Jeremiah’s eyes, again, and Jeremiah shifted in his seat to avoid the obnoxious disruption.

_Amusement._

“...and I told him,” Oswald continued, ignoring the fire-haired criminal’s antics. “I’ll wait. He was so caught up in his victory that he blundered on, of course. He simply could not accept it when the first pull of the trigger disappointed him. I had removed the bullets before he even took it off my hands!”

Jeremiah giggled, a bubbly slightly-unhinged sound for which he blamed his current anchor. “You gave him fair warning. Tell me more, how did you trap him so perfectly? You seem to have predicted his every move!”

_Pride. Mischief. Mirth._

“Ed was always obsessive in nature,” Oswald preened. “If he hasn’t gotten something right the first time, he can’t resist going back to do it over. I knew he’d take me to the pier because that’s where he’d taken me the last time he failed to kill me. That’s why I had Victor and Ivy waiting out of sight since I’d first knocked him out.”

“That’s--” Another bright flash of sunlight overwhelmed Jeremiah’s vision, chasing away his present train of thought. “ _What_ are you doing?” he finally inquired of his too-amused sibling, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from the reflected glare of the hand mirror that Jerome had been playing with for the past fifteen minutes. “Attempting to blind me in the most absurd way possible?”

“How could ya’ say such a thing? I’m not tryin’ to hurt ya’!” Jerome grinned wickedly. “I’m just checkin’ to see if ya’ sparkle in the sunlight!”

There was a pregnant pause in which the only movement was the Penguin’s unimpressed eye-roll. Then Jeremiah pounced for his twin. In the same instant, Jerome darted around to the other end of the long, oak table and out of reach, cackling.

Jeremiah sensing an impending arrival, straightened his suit jacket and reclaimed his overturned chair. He leaned forward with elbows propped on either side of his empty plate to hide his face in his hands. Little more than a second later, Firefly rounded the corner behind him.  

 _Anger. Wariness. Aggression._ Jeremiah felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in response to his brother’s protective ire.

“Yes? What is it?” the Penguin demanded sharply. “This was supposed to be a private meal!”

“You said to let you know immediately if that blonde was seen sneaking around again,” Bridget replied, unrepentant. There was a tense silence. “She’s back.”

“I gathered that much for myself,” Oswald sassed, still annoyed about the near exposure of his and Jerome’s secret guest. Jeremiah wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“You want me to--” Bridget wondered, after another awkward pause.

“Go! Kill her, _now_ please!”

As soon as Firefly left, Jeremiah hurried to the wall of windows, to peek through a parting in the long, dark amethyst curtains. Jerome darted over and grabbed him just short of his goal, hauling him bodily away from possible exposure. The second he let go, Jeremiah tried again, squeezing himself into a less easily reached vantage point between the edge of the bookshelf and the window. With a loud huff, Jerome grabbed his arm, tugging him out and away again in a more painful battle of wills. It didn’t really matter anymore, Jeremiah had already seen her.

“No… No! Ecco!” Jeremiah exclaimed, struggling against Jerome’s ironclad hold. They both knew he couldn’t get out of it, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Yeah, I know. She’s the proxy, right?” Jerome replied, frog-marching him to his place at the table with embarrassing ease. “Too bad. Can’t have people knowin’ you’re still around. She’s a real looker too.”

 _Impatience. Schadenfreude._ Why did he care enough to enjoy-- Jeremiah had no time to wonder.

“You can’t do this!” he protested as Jerome shoved him into his seat. “I owe her; Ecco has dedicated her life to my safety!”

“She guarded Xander Wilde,” Jerome corrected. “Last I checked he was s’posed to be dead so…”

“Listen,” Jeremiah improvised in a smooth, pragmatic voice. “If you honestly want to keep me alive for any length of time there is still one thing left that I need. You can use Ecco to get access without tipping our hand! She has just presented you with the perfect excuse!”

Penguin scoffed, deciding to ignore them both in favor of a second serving of french toast. Jerome on the other hand was considering his claim.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he exaggeratedly conceded. “What’re ya’ talking about now, Mazeboy? Better make it quick. ‘Can’t have long before yer girl starts feelin’ the heat!” The vicious grin on his face was less than encouraging, yet extremely inspiring.


	3. Episode Three: The List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a brief mention of child abuse/possible molestation, but it is fleeting and only a vague implication. I just thought that I should be thorough enough to include a heads up, just to be safe.

 

Jim waited for the outer door of the maze to swing open and allow him entry. He found Ecco waiting for him at the bottom of the metal, spiral staircase, locked in the middle of a tense phone conversation. He paused to observe, wondering if maybe he should come back another time but the blonde glanced back at him and gestured for him to follow, leading him into the concrete maze.

“Yes, Ma’am. I understand that. I am aware that there is a protocol, but I guarded him for years! I watched him grow up! There must be some--” Ecco protested, her long ponytail swishing along with her movements. Whoever was on the other side cut in before she could get emotional. Jim couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was cold, clinical without a trace of empathy.

“I know, I take full responsibility, and intend--” Ecco began.

This time Jim was close enough barely to catch the words. “ _Stop. Talking. I don’t care what you intend. This isn’t up for discussion. Your subject was terminated, which means that your only concern now is to clean up the loose ends and follow exit protocol,”_ the blunt woman on the other end, a commanding officer of some kind or at least someone who used to serve as one. _“Get it done.”_ Ecco let her arm fall to her side, the other woman having hung up on her.

“Trouble at home?” Jim fished, pretending to be in the dark as to what had been said.

“That was my Boss, well, before Dr. Wilde. Now that my client is dead, the Robot Bitch expects me to move on like none of it mattered,” Ecco confided, leading him around another sharp right turn without even needing to look where they were headed. “I can’t just brush it off. Xander hasn’t even had a proper burial.”

Jim gave a sympathetic wince. “I’m sorry, we still haven’t had any luck locating his remains.”

“I know. That psychopath who called himself Xander’s brother is probably still playing with his corpse. She’s right; I should’ve stopped him. That was my job.”

“You were in the hospital.” Jim cleared his throat, awkwardly casting around for an icebreaker, when he couldn’t think of one, he soldiered on with the questioning instead, “It sounds like you two were pretty close. How long have you been working for the Wildes?”

“Xander was one of my first assignments in this line of work. I started as his bodyguard and therapist shortly before his eleventh birthday. I was barely more than a kid myself and hadn’t expected to find an assignment with someone so little,” Ecco remembered. “He was just a scrawny ball of nerves, back then. ‘Used to get panic attacks whenever we tried to take him anywhere populated. I think he was afraid that his brother might be hiding in every crowd, or some even worse boogeyman... He needed someone certified to help him through the trauma.”

“You’re a certified therapist?”

“An MD with a PhD in clinical psychology; that’s why I was chosen for the job.” Ecco inclined her head slightly in admission. “You know that saying? ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you?’ It was like that for Xander. He needed both a protector and a doctor, and his foster parents could do neither. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since. I can’t leave for my next job until I’m sure that I did everything I could to give him the peace he deserved in the end.”

“You have my word that I will do everything I can to find him,” Jim promised earnestly.

“You’d better. Xander was a good man. He deserved a lot better than he got.”

There was another awkward silence as Jim followed Ecco into what looked like a combination dining and kitchen area designed to serve about four people comfortably. There were framed diagrams and technical schematics mounted on the wall in modest, black frames. The walls were a faintly grey-white, while the counters, chairs and cabinets were colored in alternating bold jewel-tones. There was a worn, ruby red couch in the corner with a blue and violet plaid blanket draped over, the one point in the room where all the colors met.

“There’s one in every frequently used room,” Ecco said, having followed his gaze. “An easy place to crash for the night. Would you like something to drink, Detective? We’ve got tea, coffee, a ton of Italian Limonata. Xander loved the stuff…” she trailed off, then blinked away her somber thoughts. “I’ve got to get rid of it somehow.”

“Sure. Soda sounds fine,” Jim accepted, watching her pour him a drink out of a citrus-inspired, glass soda bottle. “I wanted to ask you some questions about Xander to help with our investigation, if that’s alright?”

Ecco placed his glass down on the smooth steel table and claimed the violet-seated, metal chair across from his. Her own red and black checkered mug was filled with steaming chamomile. Jim guessed that the tea was probably to soothe her nerves after dealing with her unsympathetic supervisor.

“I’ve been thinking about the timing of all of this. I mean, you never really told me how you managed to pull one over on Jerome Valeska like that. He’s not the type you’d expect to get kidnapped,” Jim prodded, taking a sip of fruity soda. It was a little on the sweet side, but not too bad.

“I knew he was coming,” Ecco stated simply. “Despite recent events, I am good at my job.”

“Anymore you can tell me about that?’

“We got a tip that Jerome would be coming to Meyer & Hayes to search for Xander. I was their contact, so it made sense that he would track me down next. All I had to do was to prepare and wait for the inevitable visit.”

“And you weren’t afraid that he might just kill you?” Jim inquired.

Ecco gave a small smile in response, as if he’d just said something cute. “No.”

“You know, four people died at that firm as a consequence of Jerome’s hunt for your boss. If you knew he was coming--”

“My job is-- _was_ keeping Xander safe. To do that I had to focus on Xander first and make the call that kept him alive. Up until Jervis Tetch came along and decided to tinker inside my head, my success rate was 100%,” Ecco cut in with a polite smile frozen on her face. “Now Xander is dead and everyone thinks they can tell me how to do my job. You don’t need to explain to me about losses.”

Jim bit back his instinctive response for a semi-sympathetic, “I know, it’s tough. Whose plan was it to bring Jerome here? Honestly, it seems like a strange move for either one of you. You must’ve understood the risks as a professional and Xander was supposed to be terrified of his brother.”

Ecco shrugged and looked down at her tea bag, dragging it in idle circles in her mug, “I didn’t get it either but he was insistent. I tried to get him to see reason. It was tactically unsound. Xander was smart enough that he should have seen that, too, but he was so stubborn. He kept saying that Jerome was his twin and that made him _his_ responsibility. I didn’t want to go along with it but at the time, with the way he was acting, I figured the capture was the lesser of two evils. I told myself that at least if I let Xander have his way, I would still be close by if things went wrong.”

“You said that his parents hired you because he needed both a protector and a Doctor. Who else were you hired to protect him from?” Jim came straight out with it, doubting that he was going to gain any headway with this woman by beating around the bush. Ecco barely faltered in bringing her tea up to her lips to take a sip. He would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching for it specifically.

“What makes you ask that?” she inquired politely, her expression and inflection perfectly serene, as if she were only mildly curious.

“I doubt that the Wildes would’ve hired a professional of your caliber to protect their kid from a troubled, eleven-year-old boy.” Jim went on to theorize, “You might look dainty and non-threatening but you took down one of Gotham’s most dangerous violent offenders in close quarters while he was armed. I’m betting you didn’t even break a sweat. So I’m asking, who else was Dr. Wilde hiding from?”

Ecco was wearing that smile again. Jim must be really amusing today without even knowing it. She sat back against the cool ceramic of her backrest. “And how exactly is that going to help you find Xander’s remains?”

“We’re following all available leads,” Jim hedged, knowing he’d already lost this round.

Her smile widened. “Is that what you call it? In that case, Detective Gordon, I can’t wait to see how that works out for you.”

* * *

 

Bruce tied another knot at the end of the thin, black rope that Selina would be using to rappel down into the embassy. The cat burglar herself was rigging her harness and looping the rope through with an unconscious efficiency born of too much experience. Bruce tried to look in through the frosty glass of the pyramid-shaped skylight again, wondering idly what his techie friend would have had to say about their heist. Xander had designed a few security systems for Wayne Industries, maybe he would’ve had some ideas on how to beat this system.

_“Please, this is child’s play…”_

Bruce hummed in agreement; a mind like Xander’s probably was a bit beyond this level of technology. He opened his mouth, about to inquire after a suggestion, when Selina snapped him out of it.

“You finished anchoring the line, yet?” She asked without looking up from her own preparations.

Bruce blinked rapidly, feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “I-- Um, yes.” He looked around for any sign of another person who could’ve spoken. They were alone. “How much time do we have?”

“Easy, Bruce, we’ll get there when we get there. I’m not gonna miss the signal, trust me,” Selina lazily remarked, finishing with securing and double checking her harness. “I’m gonna need you to monitor the line, lower me and pull me up, real smooth. That’s all you gotta worry about.”

“I know. That’s not what’s bothering me.”

She took a moment to scrutinize him. Noticing something off, she tested, “Is there something you wanna’ talk about?”

“No,” Bruce said, maybe slightly too fast.

He felt, more than heard a breath of characteristically shy, self-conscious laughter from somewhere behind him and just barely prevented himself from whipping his head around to look. Selina’s lips pressed together in suspicion and she waited for a second or two to give him a chance to amend his bullshit. Bruce didn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Selina to worry that the person responsible for ensuring her safe escape was losing his mind. He _really_ hoped he wasn’t losing his mind. After pinning him with a long, appraising stare, Selina peeked down through the skylight again.

“We’ll deal with it later. Come here. You’re gonna need to start lowering me down in a sec.”

Bruce got up and they stood facing each other in front of the opening.

“Just keep it slow and steady, okay? You got this,” Selina reminded him.

“Yes,” Bruce treated the entire statement as a question. “I won’t let you fall.”

Selina’s mouth quirked in a lopsided smile as the alarm was “accidentally” tripped by their allies in the room below. “I know,” with those last words, she leaned back into a whisper-quiet descent, trusting Bruce to keep her secure. The lingering impossible presence thankfully faded out again as their theft played out. Bruce found himself relieved but another, smaller part of him, tucked away in the back of his mind, was disappointed. Xander was dead. Why was that so hard to accept?

* * *

 

Jerome hid himself around the door-frame to his brother’s old bedroom to spy through the cracked open door. Ecco was preparing to move out by the looks of it. He needed to get in there unnoticed-- well, according to Jeremiah’s plan. Jerome was feeling more flexible about it. Blond and Dangerous was busy clearing out Jeremiah’s closet and carefully packing his clothes away in a large suitcase. Wow, he still _really_ likes purple, Jerome noted, and paisley, and everything patterned--we may have a problem here. Jerome’s brow furrowed a little as he recalled the drab earth tones that his twin had been wearing when Jerome cornered him in the maze. Weird.

Ecco was holding the last item and standing over the case. It was a really nerdy, blue tweed blazer, the proxy/assistant/bodyguard was just standing still holding it to her chest. Jerome reached for the door, about to burst in and liven things up in there, when she put the jacket down and walked out of sight. Jerome shifted his position to see what she was doing. Ah, bingo! Jerome leered at the open drawer. She was taking out the carved wooden box that Jere had told him about. He had barely started to move forward when she spoke.

“Only a handful of people could’ve made it even this far,” she took something else out of the drawer but her body blocked his view. He didn’t mind, though; it was a nice body. “So don’t feel too bad about this next part.” There was the unmistakable click of a gun’s safety releasing, amplified by the deathly silence of the maze around them.

“Uh-oh.”  Jerome dropped to the floor just in time to avoid three .50 caliber rounds that blew holes through the wall where he had just been. Jerome laughed shrilly, scrambling up off the floor and out of the line of fire. “Oh, boy! I just knew you were gonna be fun!” he crowed, running into a cross-section to avoid the next two shots being fired at his head.

“It’s _you_ ,” Ecco recognized, her tone remarkably even. “You killed Xander! You’re insane to think that I would let you out of here alive.”

“Yeah, I get that alot.” He paused, reconsidering as she stalked closer. “Well-- the insane part. If ya’ didn’t want a visitor, ya shouldn’t have been spyin’ on me an’ Pengy.”

“Who?” Ecco rounded the corner, but instead of attacking, she lowered her weapon. Jerome tracked the barrel’s unmonitored descent from killshot, to manhood, to oh good, just leg territory.

“I want him back,” she said, her big bambi eyes full of emotion.

“Uh, _yeah_ , I’m supposed to be the crazy one ‘round here. Don’t steal my bit! Your boss is dead, an’ believe me, he ain’t comin’ back,” Jerome purred, relishing his victory.

“I know that he’s dead. I want his body,” Ecco bit out through gritted teeth. “Xander deserves a decent funeral!” She was actually doing a fairly impressive job of keeping her expression otherwise controlled. Jerome wondered if there was a school for that sort of thing. If there was she was probably valedictorian or something.

He let out a loud chuckle. “Oh, hate to break it to ya, Punkin Pie, but I think that ship’s sailed!”

Ecco fired her gun. He barely leapt aside in time for the shot only to wing his right thigh.

“OUCH!” Jerome could not emphasize that enough. He retrieved his own gun from the back of his waistband and fired off a warning shot before she could corner him. “You are a _terrible_ hostess!” He peppered Ecco’s end of the corridor with bullets, but she had disappeared around the corner unfairly fast.

“You’re still alive aren’t you, Puddin’?” Ecco bantered back, sounding as if she might be enjoying this as much as he would. “You should know: I don’t miss.”

Jerome scowled, “The wall says otherwise.”

Ecco peeked out at him, inclining her head cheekily.

“Ooh, I _like_ you!” Jerome grinned, then fired off a couple of easily avoided shots and limped hastily into his brother’s bedroom while he had surprise on his side. He ran straight to the dark walnut bureau and the carved wooden box left atop it. He eyed the doorway, shooting at the motion on the other side without really aiming and opened the box. “Heh heh, Yoink!” He snatched the neat, red envelope out and almost would’ve been done with his silly errand if a dark shape pressed against the corner of the box hadn’t caught his eye at the last second. Jerome’s manic facade slipped in response to the sight of the long missing object. He picked up his Uncle’s antique, brass-handled balisong knife and tucked it securely away in his pocket with something resembling awe.

“You might as well give this one up! You’re trapped in a dead end, you’re out of bullets and we both know it,” Ecco called, “I won’t have to kill you if you’ll just give him back to me!”

Jerome frowned and checked his gun. “It figures that good ol’ broski’d find himself a bodyguard as OCD as him,” he joked, as if unaware that his life was very much in peril. To his surprise and pleasure, the trained killer actually laughed, a feminine, melodic sound that he found undeniably sexy-- _Focus_ , _Jerome!_ A voice in the back of his mind reminded him, sounding suspiciously like Jeremiah. Ecco peeked around the door looking for him, but couldn’t see him.

“Where’d you go, Puddin’? Don’t think you’re going to hide from me now,” she sounded both playful and murderous at the same time. He remained silent. “Okay. I haven’t got anything else to do,” Ecco decided with a slight shrug and stepped into the room with her gun held out in front of her. Jerome pounced from his hiding place against the wall by the door, knocking her gun out of her hand. He grabbed her around the waist from behind, lifting her up off the ground. Ecco laughed again, more derisively. “Oh no! I wasn’t expecting that!”

Jerome was aware of the concept of sarcasm, but what else was a guy supposed to do? He held her so that the tips of her toes just barely brushed the floor, preventing her from getting leverage to pull any ninja acrobatics. She curled her foot at an angle, and proceeded to kick him in the face with a frankly unfair amount of flexibility. Jerome lost grip on her waist and she flipped into a handstand and kicked him across the jaw once with each foot, knocking him onto his hands and knees.

“Aw! No fair!” He spit blood onto the expensive, soft cream carpeting and chuckled. He couldn’t help it, at some point in his youth Jerome had started to like pain. In reality he wouldn’t mind doing this all night… far from it. “At least you gotta be outta bullets by now!”

“Two left.” Ecco sat on his chest and arched a finely plucked brow at his strangeness, as she leaned to over to pick up her gun. In a flash of movement which he was never going to admit scared him, with a fleeting blacking out of his vision. Jerome managed clumsily to grab her side and flip their positions. The bodyguard boxed his ears without missing a beat, trying to slither out from under him while he was dazed. He groaned and collapsed onto her for a moment, pinning her under his weight.

Ecco squirmed for a second then went still. Non-psychic twin or not, Jerome could virtually feel her thought process playing out beneath him.

“Is that..?”

“I’m gonna have to plead the fifth,” he responded with a joke, pushing himself up off of her, uncertain of himself for the first time in years. Ecco paused to study his face, then to Jerome’s astonishment, looked him dead in the eye and parted her legs for him. It was not his fault that his mind went blank. He was sure that would’ve happened to anyone in his position.

“Too bad; you’re a cutie,” Ecco reflected as her legs closed around him like a bear trap. She headbutted him, using her new leverage once again to reverse their positions. Ecco moved to shoot him. Jerome punched blindly and laughed a truly manic laugh at his dumb luck in succeeding to knock her out.

“Whoo! What a ride, huh? Well, see ya, Gorgeous!” He pushed her onto the floor, got up and left, not realizing in his haste that he had left the empty box lying open directly in her eye-line. He had never been the cautious brother.

* * *

 

Bruce led the way into the warehouse where Barbara waited with her arms crossed, leaning back against the side of his retrofitted black Mustang. Her posture was telegraphing impatience with perfect clarity even before she shoved herself upright and thrust her arm out toward Selina.

“Well done. Now, knife please,” she demanded with a shallow impression of politeness. Bruce looked from Selina’s appalled face to Barbara and back.

“Selina, it has to be me. It won’t stop him otherwise,” Bruce reminded his friend, catching her eye with a pleading look. She hesitated, torn.

“Don’t you dare give it to her!” Alfred cautioned, taking a step towards her.

“You’d better back off, Muffin,” Tabitha threatened. “Don’t listen to him, Selina.”

“ _Selina_ ,” Barbara commanded harshly. “Give me the knife!” She turned a feral eye towards Bruce, crouching in the way of a cobra about to strike. “And you’d better scram while you still can! You don’t want to see what’ll happen if you piss me off.”

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but faltered upon realizing that he could feel the lingering presence again. Selina beat him to it anyway, taking a step to the side with the clear intention of placing herself between them.

“You’ll leave him alone.” It wasn’t a threat or exclamation just yet, but a warning.

“Screw it,” Barbara pulled a gun out of the back of her pants and Bruce instinctively grabbed the back of Selina’s leather jacket in one hand. Smirking, Barbara raised her gun to point at Alfred’s head.

_Simple arithmetic..._ A cold calculation played out in Bruce’s head, laying out the existing variables like a program schematic.

“Your arrogance is going to get you killed someday,” the Butler advised the woman threatening his life. He would do whatever Bruce needed him to.

“Or just you!” Tabby fired back. She was as loyal to Barbara as Selina and Alfred were to him, in their own unique ways.

“Stop!” Selina objected, moving to hold out the sheathed dagger in surrender, and Bruce leapt into action.

“Get down!” he shouted, yanking her backwards by her jacket while grabbing the dagger with his other hand in the same movement. He had better not actually be losing his mind. Alfred ducked right in time to escape Barbara’s responding fire. Bruce tackled her against the car and tossed the dagger out of reach, under the vehicle he’d just shoved Selina behind. Barbara rammed her elbow into his jaw and kneed him hard in the ribs knocking him to the ground. She moved to kick him in the face, but Selina pounced and swung her by the arm into her own parked car. Alfred and Tabby were locked in a wrestling match a few yards away. Bruce started towards them but Selina threw an arm out to block his way.

“No.” She opened the driver’s side door to his car and shoved him in, jumping into the back. “Drive.”

“I know you’re angry with me,” Bruce related as he swerved around to pick up his embattled Butler.

“You’re damn right I’m angry! Do you have any idea what a stupid stunt you just pulled!?”

“We can yell at him later,” Alfred put in, pulling his door shut. “For now let’s just focus on getting out of here. You have it?”

Selina held up the dagger testily. “What d’you think.”

* * *

 

Jeremiah was sitting in mute seclusion on the couch at Penguin’s mansion, staring into the flames in the fireplace. He had been daydreaming about daring rooftop escapes, gunfights and a tense stalemate; his focus was wavering-- no, not _wavering_ . It felt as though his mind were split, stretched out in two directions at once. He dismissed it as a result of his recent insomnia, refusing to dwell on it further. Jerome came limping into view with the Penguin following behind him. The mobster was genuinely fretting over Jerome’s injuries, which was unexpected. People generally didn’t worry for Jerome; even when they were kids he had always been distinctly capable of taking care of himself. By the age of eight it was already common knowledge amongst the Circus folk that if you were worried about Jerome, _you_ were the one in trouble.

“Please, just take a seat for a moment. I’ll call Victor and-- Jerome! I will not have you make my hardwood floors into a horror show!” Penguin finally snapped from concerned pleas to a sharp rebuke.

“Huh?” Jerome stopped in the doorway to look back at the trail of bloody, slipping boot-prints in his wake as if he hadn’t noticed the chattering crime lord flitting freneticaly around him until that moment. “Oh, whoops! Sorry, Pal. I bet the maid can handle it.”

Oswald’s lips thinned. “Sit. Down.”

Jeremiah waited for his capricious twin to strike the smaller man down. That didn’t happen. Instead Jerome sniffed, muttered, “Whatever,” and limped over to join him on the couch.

“Butch!” Oswald called and they heard the hulking albino call back a halfhearted affirmative as he began banging things around in search of the first aid kit.

“Here ya go.” Jerome passed over the red envelope he’d been fiddling with all the way down the hallway. “Wanna tell me why the Hell this envelope was so ‘vitally important’?”

Jeremiah tore it open and pulled the papers out, discarding the majority of the folded over bundle until he was holding only the typed list.

_Curiosity. Bemusement. Acute leg pain._ Jeremiah tried to act as unbothered by it, as the wounded man himself.

“Wait. You just risked your life for a piece of mail and you don’t even know what’s in it?” Oswald disbelieved. Jerome gestured something halfheartedly that Jeremiah ignored in favor of reading the list, mouthing the place names to himself as he read. He was intent enough on what he was doing that he didn’t even react when Jerome propped his chin on his shoulder to read along.

“Manaus, Brazil; Guadalajara, Mexico; Dallas, Texas; Lawrence, Kansas; Central City--” Jerome cut short his own reading to question his distracted twin. “Okay, what gives? It’s just a list of ten random cities.”

“It’s his recent hunting grounds,” Jeremiah corrected, crumpling up the list as he mulled over the travel pattern. It wasn’t what he was trained to do with the information, but Lenore’s training operated on the assumption that he and Ecco would keep receiving her monthly ‘care packages.’ “He’s creeping closer. Gotham could be next… or soon to come.”

“Sorry, _what_ are you two talking about?” Oswald demanded, accepting a first aid kit from Butch and bringing it over to treat Jerome’s bleeding leg.

“Only the man who’s been trying to kill me since I was a child,” Jeremiah explained dismissively.

“You’re dead now, remember? He ain’t gonna bother you anymore,” Jerome dismissed, leaning back to lounge with his arms draped across the back of the couch.

“As much as I would love to be able to take your word for it--”

“You know I’m not lyin’. If I wanted ya’ dead, you’d be dead. Stop pretendin’ to be scared o’ me, Jere. It’s gettin’ real boring! Besides, I’m onto you.”

_Exasperation. Triumph. Happiness. More leg pain._ Jeremiah turned a perplexed look on his brother, wondering what in the world Jerome had to be so pleased about.

“What is wrong with you?”

Oswald looked up from patching the bullet wound to regard Jeremiah with a speaking glance.

“Aside from the usual,” the saner twin amended.

“I _know_!” Jerome cooed, too pleased with himself. He pulled a familiar, brass-and-steel balisong knife out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

“You found Uncle Zach’s knife,” Jeremiah acknowledged, face blank without trying; his brain felt _stuck_. “You appear to be attempting to drive home some point?”

“Please. You were always crappy at lyin’ to me. Forget it. The jig’s up!” Jerome was smiling a broad, genuine grin without any of the constant, lingering menace in which he habitually enrobed his presence.  “You _missed_ me!”

Jeremiah let out a scoff.

“Why’d ya keep the knife, then?”

“A reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Home!”

Jerome laughed victoriously.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Please, Jere. I’m the reason you even had the blade with ya’ that night, remember?”

“Fearing that I might be killed in my sleep? Yes, I can recall that.”

“Nah. Really, quit with the bull.”

“I’m not lying! You were terrifying! You lit my--” Jeremiah winced as the truth as he understood it once again clashed dramatically with everything he sensed from his twin’s mind.

“You know, he beat me pretty damn bad for that,” Jerome’s gravelly voice cautioned. “You’re lucky I ain’t the psycho you like to pretend I am,” he was leaning in close enough that Jeremiah could feel Jerome’s breath on the side of his face. He went very still, bracing for the murderer’s volatile mood to turn. Jerome surged forward the last few inches, but instead of inflicting harm, he pressed a slobbery kiss to Jeremiah’s ear.

_Playful. Mischievous. Relieved. Some leg pain._

“Ugh,” Jeremiah shuddered and wiped at his ear with his shirtsleeve, staring at Jerome in bewilderment. The freak had already turned away to address his prison buddy.

“Ya see, Uncle Zack was a real abusive prick! Usually I kept him too busy to bother with Jere here,” Jerome recalled, ruffling Jeremiah’s bottle-green hair. “A kid like me could be mean right back.” He cackled and waved dismissively. “You know-- But this guy?” he jerked his head toward Jeremiah.“Total wuss! Anyway, couple days before ‘e was sent away, I start noticin’ little bro here--”

“We’re twins,” Jeremiah intoned darkly, trying to rectify his once neatly combed hair.

_Smug. Nostalgic. Plagued by unacknowledged leg pain._ This was not helping.

“Two minutes older. Plus I’m bigger!” Jerome reminded him, continuing as if uninterrupted, “He starts actin’ all weird an’ twitchy whenever Uncle Zack’s around. So, I ask him about it, but that kid: scary smart for our age, but he was no risk-taker!”

“I wonder why,” Jeremiah said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I decide to keep an eye on it. I slept on the couch anyway, so all I had to do is stay up late, only _pretend_ to fall asleep that night an’ whadya know?!”

Jeremiah was hit by a potent wave of _disgust_ and _hatred_ before Jerome had even said it.

“A little after midnight I see that fat piece o’ garbage slippin’ into Jere’s bedroom while he thinks nobody’s lookin’!”

Both Oswald and Jeremiah’s eyes widened at the horrifying twist in his tale. Jeremiah doesn’t remember it at all but he can tell that Jerome believes every word that he’s saying. Jerome’s mind remembers where his own mind goes oddly blank. How had he never noticed the yawning gap there before?

“That...” He feels dizzy.

“That’s why I gave ya the knife,” Jerome finishes, not seeming to notice his brother’s disorientation. “Remember what I told ya?”

Jeremiah was already shaking his head. “No.”

“Not at all? Seriously?”

“That’s not-- That didn’t happen?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, Jeremiah felt his pulse speeding up.

_Disbelief_.

“Oh, really. So what’d ya think I gave you a knife to sleep with for, huh? Why’d I throw that candle at ‘im?” Jerome prodded, appearing to think his denials were some game that he was playing with them.

“Candle?” Jeremiah narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what Jerome was getting at. He remembered burns on his uncle’s arm. He remembered fire but not _that_ fire. “No one else was there when you threw it. You’re talking about when you lit my bed on fire… Aren’t you?”

_Rage. Hurt. Betrayal._

The pleasant emotions abruptly vanished from Jerome’s being, his expression darkening dangerously. “Don’t you dare start with those lies again! We both know I never laid a finger on you!”

Jeremiah flinched. “I don’t understand…” His ears were ringing and he could taste bile rising in his throat. The air wasn’t getting to his lungs anymore. “I d-don’t…”  
_Uncertainty. Doubt._

“Jeremiah?” Jerome questioned with a frown. _Concern_ dawning.

“I can’t remember,” Jerome breathed out as the world faded to black. He felt himself falling.


	4. Mini-Episode: Two Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this mini-episode has not been beta-read. I hope it still amuses you anyway.

 

Bruce had taken to lurking in the WayneCo internal forums under the screen name ‘VeritasEquitas’ off and on, since he had inherited the title of controlling shareholder. At first, it was to augment his research into his parents’ murder and get a feel for the internal culture within his business. Once he got acquainted with the forums, he became strangely fascinated by the even more densely compartmentalized subcultures within an already small subset of the local community.

The engineers and researchers were by far the most likable and benign in his reckoning, aside from a few unfortunately famous aberrations from the norm like Dr. Potolsky or Dr. Strange. As a consequence, theirs was the forum that Bruce often gravitated toward on late nights when his parents’ loss or Jerome’s rictus grin was too unrelenting a presence in his mind for him to attempt sleep. It was a different sort of sleeplessness that found him in the forums on that fateful night. Bruce had tried to help Selena reconnect with her mother and instead only ended up helping the con-woman hurt her. Unable to relax, he had been observing the chat in relative silence for the past half hour when the conversation took a surprisingly surreal turn.

 

WayneTech: Engineering Chatroom:

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: I still think it’s a matter of re-modulating the polarity. I don’t care what the boss says.

 

MR.MRS: _@TeslaLightsEveryOne_ Because your an idiot?

 

LaughingMan: *you’re

 

LaughingMan: Sorry, Sam. I’m not picking sides here.

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: _@MR.MRS_ The fact that you can’t come up with a better argument speaks volumes.

 

DrLin: Thanks for the free condescension, grammar nazi

 

MR.MRS: _@LaughingMan_ Ignore her. You’re fine.

 

MR.MRS: _@TeslaLightsEveryOne_ How about the fact that in the two years we’ve worked on his team Dr. Wilde has never been wrong about this kind of thing? The fact that Dr. Wayne (RIP) has never been more vocal in his support of a new talent and had a reputation for picking out the best and brightest.

 

JustCallMeTed: Wtf? It’s 1am guys. How are you still arguing about this? Side note: am I the only one here tonight who isn’t on the Grid Project team?

 

VeritasEquitas: No.

 

DrLin: I’m not.

TeslaLightsEveryOne: _@MR.MRS_ You have a crush. Which is sad since we don’t even know what the guy looks like or if he is technically even a guy. Could be a he, or a she, or many. You have a crush on several people in a basement. Lol.

 

LaughingMan: _@VeritasEquitas_ Welcome to the conversation! I see you like latin. Vir prudens non contra ventum mingit

 

MR.MRS: @ _TeslaLightsEveryOne_ Is that the best counterargument you could come up with? Tbh half the team has been suspecting for a while that you’re spouting this disrespectful bull because you can’t stand their anonymity agreement. (see, I used a neutral pronoun. Happy?) Why the heck does it matter what the boss’s gender is?

 

LaugingMan: I think it is possible that someone isn’t accustomed to being told that he’s wrong, or maybe, he’s the one who has a crush?

 

VeritasEquitas: _@LaughingMan_ Your screen name suits you well. The advice is sound but sadly I don’t really go camping anymore.

 

JustCallMeTed:???

 

VeritasEquitas: I was responding to his Latin

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne:   _@LaughingMan_ Sorry, Boss. I don’t swing that way.

 

MR.MRS: Which way?

 

DrLin: Wait a minute.

 

VeritasEquitas: _@LaughingMan_ Dr. Wilde, I presume?

 

LaughingMan: Thanks for outing me, THADIUS. Also, I second Sam’s question.

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: Glass houses, Sir. It’s kind of hypocritical to go after my name, considering.

 

TeslaLIghtsEveryOne: @MR.MRS Point taken. I don’t know how to answer that. I mean Wilde has been known to answer to both pronouns from what I hear. So, Boss… What are you?

 

DrLin: Not very PC, TeslaLights. :-(

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: _@DrLin_ Please don’t start with that.

 

VeritasEquitas: _@TeslaLightsEveryOne_ I suggest that you quit while you’re ahaed.

 

VeritasEquitas: *ahead (sorry, LaughingMan)

 

LaughingMan: I forgive you, Veritas. ;-)

 

JustCallMeTed: _@LaughingMan_ Name please?

 

MR.MRS: Come on. Leave him alone.

 

LaughingMan: Clearly, my name is Laughing Man. As the reclusive hive-mind offspring of Smiling Man and his loving wife Nota this name made us the butt of many of our classmates’ jokes. As the teacher called our name out for attendance “Man, Laughing? Is Laughing here?” the students would chuckle and say “It is now.” She would ask “Is that Laughing Man taking up all the back seats?” and they would correct her, “No, they’re just children destined to one day work remotely on engineering projects from a basement. We’re the ones who are laughing.” I could reminisce about the old days for longer if not for the kind advice of my sister Alsonota. “Laughing,” she tells us fondly when she comes to visit our basement abode “You ramble on. I worry that you don’t notice this crippling character flaw due to all of you enacting your name so often.” A wise woman, is Alsonota Man and we would be foolish not to heed her counsel.

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: That was the most ridiculous thing ever to be posted in this forum. I think the insomnia is getting to you, Man.

 

VeritasEquitas: I love it! Your grandparents, please?

 

LaughingMan: Grandpa Old and Grandma Wo. Sadly, the moniker did not suit poor Gramps in his youth, but thankfully over time he has managed to grow into it.

 

JustCallMeTed: _@LaughingMan_ 100% this. I choose to accept this as reality and don’t anyone dare correct me! XD

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: I can’t help but notice that a certain someone isn’t responding to me anymore...

 

MR.MRS: Has it occurred to you that the whole gender identity mystery could be on purpose? I know the anonymity issue was already officially explained so there shouldn’t be any mystery left at this point.

 

LaughingMan: _@TeslaLights_ I have located a minor malfunction in the system’s temperature sensors that is likely partially at fault. I have emailed details on how I believe it can be most efficiently corrected to the team’s office email. You can look at it in the morning. Is that an adequate response?

 

VeritasEquitas: Now I’m curious. What anonymity issue?

 

JustCallMeTed: Wilde never meets anyone.

 

DrLin: Dr. Wilde infamously works only through remote interaction with Wayne Industries, via text, email, hired messenger etc. Nobody knows what he/she looks like or anything like that, but rumor is that he/she has never even met any company employees apart from the late Dr. Thomas Wayne when he recruited him/her straight out of college. Dr. Wilde has never set foot on any Wayne Industries property as far as anyone knows. The consensus is currently that he/she has some crazy severe agoraphobia or something but is so good at the job that he/she is given special treatment.

 

VeritasEquitas: Are you messing with me?

 

VeritasEquitas: _@LaughingMan_ Is this true?

 

LaughingMan: I feel the need to clarify that I’m not crazy. Other than that, her characterization of me is fairly accurate.

 

DrLin: Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.

 

JustCallMeTed: So, you’re not agoraphobic? If not why all the cloak and dagger?

 

LaughingMan: Everyone’s afraid of something. I have my reasons for remaining unseen and I assure you, they are perfectly sane.

 

MR.MRS: So... Dr. Wayne really recruited you straight out of University? But you’ve only been with us for a couple of years, right? How old are you?

 

VeritasEquitas: Did you really know Thomas Wayne?

 

LaughingMan: Yes. He recruited me. Do you mind if I ask why it matters to you? I don’t mean to be rude.

 

JustCallMeTed: Laughing, my dude, ASL--Well, forgo L?

 

LaughingMan: 18/whichever/Earth

 

TeslaLightsEveryOne: Jesus Christ!

 

At that point Bruce took the gamble and invited Dr. Wilde to a private chat, forgoing the forum for the rest of the session. The teens ended up talking well into the morning and only logging out at 7am so that the older boy could focus on his work. A trend that would repeat at least once a month for the next couple of years. Providing each other with a long distance confidant, and Bruce with an amusing puzzle to halfheartedly toy with; after a while Alfred took to jokingly referring to “Laughing Man” as “Bruce’s Rumpelstiltskin”. It was a strange beginning to a fiercely loyal, unbreakable bond that would last in one form or another for the rest of their lives. Stranger still, they would be two years into their friendship before both young men even met.


	5. Episode Four: Redundancies

 

Selina and Bruce sat together in one of his less noteworthy cars, parked out front of the Sirens’ club. They were waiting for Ra’s to strike, knowing that it was only a matter of time. They had been doing so all night.

“What time is it?” Selina asked, shifting restlessly in her seat.

Bruce checked his watch. “3:45,” he reported.

“It’s morning.”

“Early morning,” Bruce offered as consolation.

“This isn’t working, Bruce. What if he doesn’t show up? Are we just supposed to wait out here forever? I should be asleep right now!”

“If you would like to get some rest, you can put the seat back for awhile and I’ll keep watch,” Bruce suggested. Selina gave him a withering look. “Or if you would rather leave, I will understand,” he amended. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yeah,” Selina scoffed. “Like I’m leaving you behind to face the mummy worshiping cult. If you’re staying, I’m staying. I just wish something would happen before--”

A loud crash broke the relative silence of the starlit street and Barbara tumbled out through the front window of the club.

Bruce and Selina looked at each other, saying in unison, “He’s here,” and hurried out of the car. Selina pulled the ticked off club owner to her feet.

“It’s about time you two got here!” Barbara remarked rudely, entitled as ever.

“He’s inside?” Bruce needlessly verified, drawing the dagger out of his belt.

“Obviously,” Barbara confirmed. “Well? Go, kill him already!”

Selina shook her head, fed up with the other woman’s attitude. Bruce sprinted into the building to face the immortal assassin. The edges of the room were lined with women, members of the League of Shadows, but none appeared willing to intervene in favor of either side.

“Bruce Wayne,” Ra’s greeted fervently.

“You wanted to die. Let me make this right,” Bruce replied sternly. “It’s over Ra’s! Let me put you to rest, as you should be.”

There was something animalistic and twisted lying in wait behind Ra’s’ smile. “Oh, no. The time will come for you to take your rightful place as my heir, but that day is not today.” He spread his arms, sliding back into a fighting stance. Bruce charged and they locked in battle, exchanging punches, kicks and shallow swipes of both their blades. The fight moved quickly and fluidly in a mesmerizing and deadly dance, too constantly shifting and tightly wound to follow from the outside. Finally, it ended when Ra’s knocked Bruce onto his back with a ruthless strike to his windpipe, knocking Bruce’s knife across the floor. Ra’s stepped over the teen’s choking curl on the floor to grab the dagger but Barbara got there first, surging towards him with a battle cry, to stab Ra’s in the heart.

“No…” Bruce gasped, pushing himself into a crouch the floor. Ra’s looked down at the knife, then up at Barbara’s stunned face.

“Ouch,” Ra’s stated, lacking any trace of pain and threw her against the wall hard enough to knock her out cold.

“Barbara!” Tabitha shouted and ran over to her from her place at the sidelines.

“You are getting stronger, My Heir,” the immortal conceded, pulling the knife out of his desiccated chest. “But you have much to learn before you can truly match my skill in combat.” He went to throw the weapon down and crush it, only to stop short frowning at it. Bruce leapt to his feet, hooking one arm around the assassin’s neck while the other unsheathed the real dagger hidden at the small of his back.

“I know,” he growled into Ra’s ear as he plunged the blade through the assassin’s heart. Ra’s choked, staring in offended awe as his hands began to degrade into ember and ash. “Fortunately, I’ve recently witnessed someone learning this lesson the hard way.” He released the disintegrating assassin onto smoldering legs.

“But how? I.. should have... seen it coming,” Ra’s muttered, disappearing into a pile of ashes. Bruce remembered with an odd mix of melancholy and self-loathing, the advice of his long distance confidant. He somehow doubted that L.M. would approve of this interpretation of “multiple redundancies.”

“Bruce?” Selina questioned. Bruce wrenched his gaze away from the remains of the man he’d just killed and strode past her out of the club without a word. He went straight to his car and got in, slamming the driver’s side door with more force than necessary. Selina jogged after him and slid into the passenger’s seat with a silently demanding glare. Bruce didn’t give her the time to begin interrogating him, hitting the gas as soon as she was safely seated.

“Wow!” Selina grabbed the side of her seat and door, digging her nails into the dark surface. “Damn it! Slow down! Nobody’s chasing us, okay? Take it easy!”

“I’m not going to crash,” Bruce said, his tone evened out to hide the roil of intense emotions that he didn’t know how to deal with.

“Bullshit!” Selina protested, plastering herself to her seat.

* * *

 

When they reached Wayne Manor, Selina was trembling with anger-- only anger; nobody had better try to call it anything different. Bruce was beginning to show the first signs of realizing that he’d screwed up again. He turned to her with that stupid, soft expression on his stupid face. She saw his dark green eyes take her in as if he’d only just realized that his decisions affected other people.

“I’m sorry. I--”

Selina jumped out of the car and threw the front door open with a rough shove, bouncing it off the mansion wall as she stormed inside. She hated riding in cars. She hated being kept out of the loop and having to tag along behind this douchebag who was _supposed_ to be her friend because the others were too busy fighting over who’s boss to give a shit about her.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d be getting in before sun--” Alfred stopped at the sight of her. “Oh, bloody hell. What is it now?”

Selina glared at him and pushed past on her way to the kitchen without a word. She heard that Bruce must not be too far behind her, judging by the Butler’s next words.

“Well at least you’re all in one piece. What in the world did you say to her?”

Selina went straight for the fridge and began aggressively shifting through the contents for something suitably tasty to take her mind off of everything wrong with her current lifestyle. She ignored Bruce’s quiet arrival on the other side of the kitchen island in favor of choosing between Chicken Alfredo and some kind of abstractly appealing meat pie that she figured was probably more Alfred’s sort of thing.

“There’s some of that poached salmon that you like left in the meat drawer,” Bruce informed her in a subdued tone. Selina grabbed the chicken fettuccine and the aforementioned salmon, snagged a plastic-wrapped section of honeydew melon off the top shelf and brought her improvised food pile over to the counter. It was a lot; that’s how mad she was. Bruce eyed the leftover feast, doing the emotional arithmetic in his head.

“I’m sorry. I behaved rashly and I should have slowed down when you asked me to,” he apologized again in more detail. Selina gave him a flat look as she turned back to snag the curried green beans she’d had her eye on and added it to her pile.

“And?” she prompted, beginning to arrange her food on a plate in preparation to warm it up.

“And?” Bruce echoed, uncertain. She paused in her food arrangement, spurring him to try again, “I should have told you about Ra’s sooner… and let you in on the plan. I was only trying to protect you--”

“And there it is,” Selina intercepted, with an accusatory finger. “You don’t get to decide for me. Only I choose whether or not I take risks. You did it back in that warehouse; you did it back there at the club and don’t think I didn’t notice you lying to me on the embassy roof. That’s why I’m angry. So, are you gonna tell me what is actually going on with you?”

“I’m fine.”

Selina pinned him under a no nonsense stare, placing her hands on her hips.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Bruce confessed. “It’s hard to explain.”

Selina went back to preparing her food, unfazed. “Give it a try; I’m not going anywhere.”

Bruce took a moment to order his thoughts. “At first I thought I might be losing my mind. I’ve been trying to keep myself occupied to avoid thinking about it. It’s almost as if I’m being haunted.”

Selina pressed her lips together unhappily with a jaded nod of her head. “You’re _still_ hung up on Xander Wilde. You knew the guy for, like, a day. I get that you liked him and all, but seriously, Bruce, you need to move on!”

“I know that. I was trying,” Bruce allowed. “It isn’t that simple anymore.”

“Why not?” Selina challenged, becoming fed up with his continued evasions. “Listen, if you need me to help you track down that psychopath to tie things off, all you gotta do is ask.”

“I don’t want revenge.”

“Then what do you want, Bruce? Because you’re not making a lot of sense.”

“I did want that at first, briefly-- It comes and it goes,” Bruce corrected himself with brutal honesty. “I didn’t ever really want to kill again after Ra’s but… That isn’t the problem. Even though I saw Jerome slit his throat, I can still feel Xander’s presence. It isn’t a constant, if it were, I could dismiss it. When it happens, it’s as if he’s next to me just out of my line of sight. The facts change and he’s alive as unquestionably as Gotham’s sky is grey, fire is hot and rain is wet. That’s what happened to me on the roof. It was the first time I realized that it was more than just my guilt playing tricks on me.”

Selina blew out a long-suffering breath at the mention of Bruce’s imagined guilt; he was always too determined to take responsibility for other people’s crap. She paused to run a slow appraising gaze over him. He didn’t look sickly at all, or pale, just stressed out. Maybe that was it.

“How have you been sleeping?”

Bruce’s brows pinched together. “I don’t think I’m hallucinating.”

Selina arched an eyebrow.

“I have missed a couple of hours here and there,” he admitted, still appearing ready to argue.

* * *

 

Jeremiah snapped awake on Penguin’s couch. The fire was still crackling in the hearth, the only source of light in the dark and empty space. He scooted himself back against the arm of the couch, realizing the room was not quite as unpopulated as he’d first assumed. There was a little boy standing near his feet, staring at him, with a head of brown curls and a notepad hanging from a string about his neck. Jeremiah narrowed his eyes at the seven-year-old. The boy did not deserve to be endangered in this way. The little boy, Martin, began writing on his pad.

-Hello. I’m Martin. Who are you?-

Jeremiah considered the young mute, wondering how he was going to navigate this. “Good evening, Martin.” He ignored the child’s surprised appreciation that he’d correctly pronounced the i in Martin as a long e, without prompting. “I am no one. I’m sure it would be a joy to meet you, but I am afraid that a stranger is what I must remain.”

Martin had already started writing by the time Jeremiah was halfway through talking. He held up the notepad again and Jeremiah internally swore.

-Why do you look like Jerome? Are you why he’s being scary?-

“What has he done now?” Jeremiah momentarily conceded his existence for the sake of being informed. He could feel a mess of anger, grief and burning hatred melded with a jumble of other insane impressions that he could not make heads nor tails of without outside context.

-Oswald says it’s a tantrum- Under Martin’s words was a crude drawing of a suited man, brutally slashed and covered in blood being dragged away by a gawking stick figure.

“This is no place for children,” Jeremiah intoned darkly, shoving himself to his feet with intent to head upstairs and deal with the problem himself. Martin scurried after him, grabbing his shirtsleeve. “What are you doing?”

-Don’t go to the 3rd floor- Martin scrawled hastily.

“I agree. _You_ should stay far away from Jerome.” Jeremiah turned to walk away, but the little boy stepped in front of him, holding up the grizzly picture and pointing at it urgently.

“The Penguin’s orders don’t apply to me.”

-Why?-

“I’m no one. Remember?” Jeremiah concluded, grabbing the top few sheets of paper and tearing them out of Martin’s book. “This never happened.” He tossed the paper into the fire.

Martin glowered up at him. Jeremiah ignored it; this was for the boy’s own good.

He hurried upstairs two at a time and made it to his brother’s room, stepping in through the open doorway just in time to catch a flying crystal tumbler. Jeremiah lowered the impulsively-thrown vessel away from his eye level to look askance at his twin.

“Ah. ‘Didn’ know ya’ were awake.” Jerome deflated a little from his enraged loom over his own abused bed. A broken chair dangled from a shelf opposite the door and the wall bore a head-sized hole.

“You left me out in the common area where anyone could come upon me,” Jeremiah scolded, forgoing the perplexing mystery of how his brother had done _that_ to the headboard.

Jerome waved it off. “Nobody’s around. Pengy didn’t think I should move ya. What the hell was that anyway? You just collapsed! You were spoutin’ all kinds o’ jibberish about me an--”

“There is a _child_ in this house!” Jeremiah cut him off. Some of Jerome’s moodiness was bleeding into his own concerns, unpredictable in its influence.

Jerome paused, bewildered by his response, but recovered quickly, “So what? Don’t change the subject.”

“I don’t know what that was,” Jeremiah answered impatiently. “Why is there a _child_ in the house?”

“Wh-- He’s Oswald’s --I think. Don’t care,” Jerome shrugged it off with a careless gesture. “What d’ya mean ‘you don’t know’?” he pursued, suspicious, angry and looking for someone to take it out on.

“Don’t be tedious, Jerome. I mean exactly what I said. There is a gap in my memory. It’s unimportant! What _is_ important is that you left me exposed downstairs with an innocent child roaming around unmonitored! He saw the mobster you murdered! He saw _me_! You are putting him in mortal danger without any--”

“Oh for cryin’ out loud, Jere! Nobody’s hurtin’ the kid! Try to keep your eye on the ball here, would ya’?” Jerome cut in as if his twin were the one being unreasonable.

“It is moments such as this in which I would really love to punch you,” Jeremiah drawled out in aggravation. Jerome’s scowl turned to a petty leer.

“Do it!” He spread his arms wide and leaned in to present an easy target.

“I’m _obviously_ not going to hit you again.”

“Aw, go on, hit me! It’s funny!”

Jeremiah stood in silence for a moment, staring daggers at his irrational anchor, then returned to the more important topic, “As I have tried and failed to impress upon you, simply knowing of my continued existence is a death sentence. The people who turned me into what I am now will not hesitate to kill anyone who knows about me in order to erase me from existence, even a seven-year-old boy! Martin would certainly not be their first juvenile casualty.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not gonna talk about ya’ behind your back,” Jerome joked.

“I am not going to hit you.” Jeremiah may have only been reaffirming that fact to himself.

_Exhilaration. Tension. Suspicion._ It seemed that Jerome was still fixating on Jeremiah’s lapse.

“You said you have a gap in your memory.”

“I do. I also told you that it isn’t important.”

“How much don’t ya’ remember?”

There was a tense silence broken by a burst of strange, gasping giggles from Jeremiah. He reached up to cover his mouth as if to catch them, then acquiesced to his mirth. His laughter had become progressively more deranged since his fake murderer had delivered him to the mansion; this was the first time that Jerome was the one consciously to realize the wrongness of it.

“Jere?”

“What a profoundly stupid question,” Jeremiah drawled with an odd contrast of detachment and glee that didn’t fit. “I don’t know what I don’t know. If I knew it, I would know it!” He wheezed in the last giggle, setting his _naturally_ mercurial twin on edge. Jeremiah’s apathetic eyes were dissonant against the giddy backdrop presented by the rest of his face, his tone cold even as his voice trembled with jubilance.

“You feelin’ alright?” Jerome questioned, his anger utterly banished by the uncanny sight.

_Disquiet. Alert._ Jeremiah didn’t understand what had caused the abrupt turn of Jerome’s mood. He couldn’t understand himself in that moment, wondering, is something wrong with me?

His breath shook, in one more breathy threat of a giggle. “I don’t know.” He paused to consider the clock on the wall past Jerome’s left shoulder. “I suppose I’m merely tired. Yes, that’s it.” Jeremiah wandered in a daze towards his own bedroom one floor below. With a speculative squint after his twin’s retreating silhouette, Jerome followed.

* * *

 

Despite Selina’s reasonable advice, Bruce crept past her sleeping form on the couch later that morning to take a seat at his desk and turned on the computer. Denial is a strange and devious thing in the ways that it can play havoc on the mind without hardly a hint of notice.

He opened up his email at 8 am to send out the celebratory message that he was accustomed to sending at this time, on this day, just as he had last year and the year before. Something stalled Bruce at the blank email window. There was an odd foreboding in his gut that he had never before associated with his secretive, agoraphobic contact. L.M.’s birthday was always a happy occasion, a time when Bruce could count on spending a few hours long-distance bonding with his friend he hadn’t met yet, or as Alfred called him “your very own Rumpelstiltskin.” Bruce stared at the screen for a few minutes before brushing off his own foolishness and sending off a simple “Happy Birthday! It’s been awhile.”

He opened up the secure messenger program the recluse had created for them, electing to skim through the newspaper left on his desk while he waited. L.M. would send some joke or lighthearted aside via the messenger once he’d received Bruce’s email as he always did. Bruce finished reading an opinion piece in the Gotham Chronicle about new regulations being imposed on Arkham Prison staff; too little, too late in Bruce’s own opinion. Jerome never would’ve escaped if the facility hadn’t already been corrupt to the core.

He eyed his computer screen. No sign of L.M. yet, which was a first. Bruce told himself that it was probably too early, or maybe the birthday boy had simply decided to sleep in this morning. He closed out of the program for the time being and went to breakfast.

“That was quick. How’s your Rumple doing, then?” Alfred inquired pleasantly, pouring him a cup of coffee with just a splash of cream.

“Thank you, Alfred. He hasn’t replied yet.” Bruce accepted the drink and took a sip of his coffee, feeling his nagging unease deepening the more he tried to suppress it. It felt as if he was forgetting something terribly important.

“It’s not like him to sleep in,” Alfred noted, not nearly as bothered by the anomaly. “Oh, well. I’m sure it’s for the best.”

Bruce hummed noncommittally and steered the topic away, towards more neutral fare, unsure why the present subject wasn’t. He picked at his food and did his best not to think too deeply on the matter. He had other business to attend to today in honor of his fallen friend’s express wishes.

* * *

 

When Jeremiah woke again that morning, it was to the disheartening knowledge that his brother had spent most of the night watching him sleep. He turned his head to meet the creep’s gaze.

“Good morning, Brother,” Jerome purred like some horror movie villain, poised to strike. A smile lit his scarred face and he crowed “Happy birthday!”

_Excitement. Joy. Mischief._

“No, no, _Jerome_! Don’t you dare-- Oof!” Jeremiah protested his brother’s enthusiastic tackle, wriggling like a cat stuck under a fence in an attempt to escape the painful noogie his rambunctious sibling assaulted him with. It was as if no time at all had passed since they were separated. “Ow! J, get off you savage!” he hissed. “We’re both far too old for such ridiculous--Mph!” Jeremiah’s face was momentarily smothered by his feather pillow and he gripped its corner with malicious intent.

“Tradition!” Jerome bellowed heartily. Laughing, he eased off of his squirming victim.

The slighter Valeska twisted around and started beating him over the head with the pillow, eliciting more amused laughter. Jerome shoved him backward onto the pile of blankets and crawled off the bed. Jeremiah got up and caught a glance at himself in the large antique mirror mounted on the wall beside the entrance to his closet.

“I _hate_ you.” He began trying to flatten his frizzy green locks. “Your henchman is dead by the way, not that you care.”

Jerome hacked loudly and spat out a feather. “I don’t; he was Oswald’s stooge anyway.”

“How do you even have _a_ friend?” Jeremiah casually insulted.

“Bold words, considerin’ I’m all you got,” Jerome pointed out, not in the least bit offended.

_Happiness. Concern. Determination._

“It’s our birthday; don’t depress me.” Jeremiah wandered into the walk-in closet to fetch an appropriate suit for the occasion. “I can make it downstairs on my own,” he addressed his brother’s lingering uncertainty while he changed into a pair of black, pinstriped pants. “I fainted once. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“We’re going to talk about it.”

“I doubt that.” Jeremiah strode out of the walk-in closet to face his hovering anchor as he buttoned his blood-orange silk shirt. “ _Please_ , you aren’t the doting kind. Don’t feel the need to start now.”

“You an’ me remember things when we were kids differently,” Jerome ground out, insulted.

“You let me tag along because I was too good at finding you to elude and you were too afraid of Mom to risk any harm coming to me. Don’t think that I was unaware of how you wanted to be rid of me,” Jeremiah intoned, leaving his voice flat to hide how much it used to bother him. He turned instead to consider the selection of ties provided for him. “Ironic, considering how eager you were to turn that victory into yet another reason to hate me.”

_Guilt. Sadness. Irritation._

“Yeah well, ya never know until ya try it, hindsight an’ all that,” Jerome grabbed a random silk tie off the rack, one with burgundy and orange spiralling fractals embroidered onto black, and looped it around Jeremiah’s neck as a makeshift leash, dragging him out.

“At least allow me to finish getting dressed,” Jeremiah bargained, managing to snag his charcoal suit-jacket as he passed it on the way out.

“Ya’ look fine. You don’t need makeup!”

“I see, as you would be the best judge of that.”

* * *

 

Bruce pushed the buzzer at Jeremiah’s deceptively blank, diminutive front door and waited. He looked up and was relieved to see the surveillance camera above turn to point at him.

“Ecco, I don’t believe that we have met. I’m Bruce Wayne.”

“I know who you are,” Ecco’s voice responded over the small intercom speaker. “One moment, please.” She buzzed him in and Bruce cautiously descended the metal spiral stairs to wait for her to guide him into the maze proper. Ecco met him, looking tired and slightly distracted. There was a bandage covering the knuckles of her left hand and a bruise at the edge of her lower jaw.

“Is everything alright?”

“There’s nothing going on that I can’t handle. Is there any reason in particular why you felt the need to come back?” Ecco paused, then amended. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just... Xander’s birthday, you know?”

Bruce felt the cold dread that had been lingering in his stomach all morning solidify into a cold, bitter pit. He hadn’t even recognized him. Ecco seemed to notice his rapidly sobering mood.

“You didn’t know. Of course not,” she breathed, darkly amused. “He was always so secretive. This way; we’ll talk more in the lounge.”

“Actually, I was hoping to see his workroom again if you don’t mind. I remembered one of the last times that Xander and I spoke before… He told me about his hopes that his electric generator could bring clean, affordable power to this city.”

Ecco nodded, leading him around another left-hand turn which gave the illusion that they were doubling back on their previous path without actually doing so, “He wanted to give something back to the world. His latest prototype hasn’t been run through the full battery of testing. We had to halt the process in response to the threat posed by Jerome.”

“I believe it is possible that we could still bring Xander’s hope to fruition. I can provide the necessary funds myself. There will be a place open for you on the team; I know that you’re used to serving as Xander’s proxy for projects such as this one.”

“I am,” Ecco accepted, admitting, “I’m still no engineer. You’re going to need another Head Engineer--one experienced with quantum nanotechnology-- plus a Chemist and a Software Engineer at the bare minimum to fill his place on the team, probably more. Xander had a unique skill set that he was constantly expanding. He won’t be easy to replace.”

“I have no intention of _replacing_ Xander. He... was a dear friend,” Bruce swallowed down the painful lump threatening his throat. “I merely intend to keep his dream from dying with him.”

Ecco gave a curt nod, gesturing for him to enter the lounge ahead of her. “Feel free to look around while you wait. I still need to tidy up before you head into his workspace,” she explained, lingering by the door. “Help yourself to the snack cooler if you want. ‘Shouldn’t be too long.”

Bruce circled the the u-shaped, burgundy leather couch that sectioned off one corner of the lounge, running a hand over the back, then locked eyes on a space at the other end of the room that screamed to him of Xander Wilde. A little smoking corner was set up around a vintage, violet-black damask-upholstered chaise longue with a Victorian teak work-desk at the head. There was a sleek, gunmetal grey laptop on the desk. A cut crystal ashtray on the small checker-topped, ebony coffee table still held a lone unfinished cigarette. Bruce took a seat on the chaise longue surrounded in the lingering aroma of Crossroad Slims, juniper and just the faintest hint of the India ink that Xander used on his designs. He felt the soft poison-green cashmere throw folded at one end of the seat with his fingertips, then pulled out the drawer in the little table. It was filled three quarters of the way with neatly-aligned packs of cigarettes still in their plastic wrappers. Bruce’s eyes fell on one unwrapped pack hidden in the back corner amongst the many untouched others: odd.

“Make yourself at home. Everything should still be exactly as he left it,” Ecco continued casually. Bruce could feel her eyes fixating on him and politely overlooked it. He slid the drawer shut, shifting his attention to Xander’s laptop.

“Should be?” Bruce questioned as he opened it on the coffee table.

“I’ve been sorting through Xander’s things over the past few days. Half the pages are missing from his sketchbook. I don’t know why he’d do a silly thing like that. He’s never been that reckless before,” Ecco responded, taking an unobtrusive step back into the corridor. Bruce caught the movement through his peripherals, shifting his eyes from the login screen of Xander’s computer. “But he’s been different ever since he started chatting with you.”

“I’m not sure that I follow your meaning,” Bruce responded, suspicion beginning to tease his nerves.

Ecco favored him with a wanly apologetic smile and vanished behind the closing exit. Bruce heard the ominous sound of heavy bolts clunking into place.

“Ecco?” Bruce sprinted to the door and tried to locate some handle or leverage point. Finding nothing but a smooth metal surface sealing him in, he pounded on the door. “Ecco! What are you doing? You can’t lock me in here like this! Someone is going to come looking for me!”

“Relax, Mr. Wayne, I’m just doing my job. This is for your own good. Once I’ve secured the rest of the document, you’ll be free to go,” Ecco told him in a pleasant tone. “After all, I’m sure that Xander would never risk losing a good friend like you over this little rebellious impulse.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about! What document?” Bruce called back.

“Don’t you worry about that.” From the sound of Ecco’s voice, Bruce was beginning to suspect playful meant danger. He heard her footsteps moving away from the door and struck the uncompromising barrier hard with his fist.

“Ecco! Tell me what’s wrong! Maybe I can help you!”

“So sorry, but we can’t have that. Just sit tight. This is for your own protection.” With that she strode quickly away and Bruce knew he wasn’t likely to lure her back any time soon.

Bruce looked around for anything that he could force into the seam of the door, not that he held out much hope for that. Xander was a security expert, a perfectionist; if he wanted this room to be inescapable, Bruce didn’t doubt that it would be. If Xander truly was L.M. (which now that Bruce thought about it, he was) he had always cautioned that he had a very real, vital reason for keeping himself hidden. L.M. had refused outright to humor any of Bruce’s attempts to pursue the issue further, going silent for weeks in response. Bruce finished his search of the room and dragged his cold stare up to the ceiling-mounted camera surveilling him from the corner of the room.

Bruce didn’t know for certain whether Ecco was friend or foe. What he did know was that if in awareness of his imminent death, Xander had felt it necessary to use the time he had left to hide something, it was probably worth protecting. He settled his features into a stoic mask and stared straight into the camera lens. Bruce shrugged off his jacket, stepped up onto the back of the couch and used his black, kevlar-lined trench coat to block Ecco’s eyes into the room. Xander had torn out pages from some sketchbook shortly before his death...

Bruce returned to the smoking corner and retrieved the oddly-placed pack of cigarettes. There was a neatly folded piece of graph-paper tucked inside next to three unsmoked cigarettes. He pulled the hidden clue out of its hiding place and unfolded it to find a hand-drawn technical schematic. One side had tears along the edge and perforation marks: a sketchbook page hidden within a vice that Ecco purportedly disapproved of. Bruce held it up to the light to determine what he could about the hand-inked schematic. It was a very intricate design for a spiraling fractal-shaped device with a curved, elongated tail that fanned outward into a web of superfine wires. From Bruce’s--admittedly limited-- practical understanding, the device detailed on the graph paper didn’t quite match the revolutionary, yet clearly less intricate hardware of Xander’s engine designs. There were similarities, such as the clearly organic inspiration within its form: entirely bionic in contrast to the countless other technical specs submitted to Wayne Corp. This single schematic was vastly more intricate than anything Xander had ever shown him. Whatever the device was, it gave Bruce the impression of a more medical nature. Its general layout reminded him of illustrations of the inner workings of the human brain that he’d seen in his father’s medical textbooks. Bruce refolded the page and returned it to its makeshift case before tucking it safely away in his pocket. He checked his cellphone; the signal was being jammed. He wasn’t at all surprised to find out the bunker was equipped with that capability.

“You had to know that being trapped like this was possible. If you were L.M… What was it that you used to say?” Bruce noticed that one of the three large bookshelves lining the walls was deceptively built-in and began feeling around the easily reached surfaces with the flat of his hand for some kind of failsafe. He felt a little switch hidden on the underside of a level at about the taller man’s waist height, smirked to himself and flipped it. “Every good design contains multiple redundancies,” he quoted victoriously, as the door slid open. Bruce paused to think, then darted over to snatch up Xander’s laptop, off the coffee table. He just managed to slip out through the closing door in time, running back in the direction which he’d come. Escaping the lounge had been the easy part, now he would have to find his way back out of the maze without Ecco… and without being caught by Ecco.

* * *

 

Jim barged into Penguin’s home for a visit as he occasionally had to. Butch had tried to stall him at the door, but was wise enough not to fight him too hard. The fairly unique experience occurred when his path into the dining room was blocked by a jet of flame courtesy of a smirking Firefly. Jim turned an aggravated wince on her, unwilling to be intimidated. She fired another burst for the sake of being contrary.

“It’s alright, Bridget,” Oswald called from inside, sounding to be in good spirits. “Let the Detective through.”

Jim stepped through the unobstructed archway to find a strange and disconcerting sight on the other side. Jerome Valeska was cutting an indulgent portion out of a carrot cake decorated to look like himself for a little boy with a notebook hung around his neck. The boy, perched on one of the chairs, held out a fine gilded-china plate to accept the treat while Penguin kept an eye on the proceedings from his seat on the child’s other side. Jim noticed the seat opposite the crime boss had been pulled out from the table and the thin slice of cake placed before it still had the first bite, uneaten, on the abandoned fork; whoever had been sitting there had certainly left in a hurry.

“Jimbo, what a surprise! Ya didn’t come here to join the party, did ya?” Jerome enthused, but there was an unmistakable menace underlying his question.

“I came here to talk to Penguin,” Jim said forcing a smile as cold as Jerome’s stare.

“Lighten up, Mood killer! You’re screwin’ with the birthday cheer!” The maniac countered.

Penguin stood from his seat and gestured for Butch to take his place beside the little boy. “I’m sure this won’t take long,” he assured the more dangerous criminal and ushered Jim out to talk in private by the inner staircase.

“What do you need, Jim?” Oswald inquired tightly.

“I need Xander Wilde.”

Oswald gave a stilted smile, hunching forward in a mocking scoff. “Xander Wilde is gone. I know that I have accomplished some impressive feats in the past, but even I cannot raise the dead.”

“His family is riding my ass to reclaim his corpse so the poor kid can get a decent burial.”

“I fail to see how that is my problem.”

“Call it a favor for a friend,” Jim bit out, reining in his desire to grab the oily little shit by the front of his suit and shove him into the wall.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Oswald apologized, placing a hand on Jim’s arm that he really wanted to break. “But you must try to understand this from my point of view. Jerome is my friend too and to be frank, he has proven himself far more appreciative of my kindness. It would be inappropriate of me to betray that faith by stealing his dear brother away from him.”

Jim grabbed the Penguin’s silk cravat in his clenched fist, yanking him forward to meet his snarl. “I don’t have time to play mind games with you! We’re talking about the brother Jerome murdered on live television. The man is a psychopath, and you are going find out where he’s hidden Wilde!”

The subtle sound of boots prowling quietly over the wood floors were all the heads up Jim got before he had a messy cake knife pressed against his throat.

“Or what?” Jerome purred, grabbing Jim’s shoulder in a painful grip. He was right up beside him holding the knife up in a deceptively casual pose. Oswald’s beaklike nose flared and he pushed Jim’s hands away, extricating himself. The Detective begrudgingly held up his hands in submission.

“I have nothing to be afraid of. As I tried to tell you, Jerome understands my value,” Oswald paused to straighten his tie and stepped back towards the archway.

“Yup.” Jerome jerked his head towards the dining room. “‘Kid’s missin’ ya.”

Oswald tensed minutely, regarding the endangered Detective and his captor, conflicted; then he decided there was little to be done for it and left.

“Psychopath, huh?” Jerome pondered, theatrically pulling Jim close with an arm around his shoulders. “I wonder! Why a busy Police Captain like you would be so caught up on little old me?” He trailed the tip of the blade over the side of Jim’s face, as if considering how he wanted to carve him up. Instead Jim saw his dark eyes flicker upward to linger on something on the level above, unfocused; his mouth curled almost seeming to Jim as if he were relenting to some phantom reproach. Then he began to walk Jim towards the exit, gesturing with his knife. “I’m flattered, honest, but ya’ gotta calm down. Nobody likes a stalker!” he grinned murderously, too close to Jim’s cheek. “I’m sure we understand each other.”

“We do,” Jim growled.

“Peachy! See ya!” Jerome shoved him towards the door with a high pitched laugh. “Eh, Firefly! Make sure Jimmy, here, doesn’t get turned around on his way off the property.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an early Warning: the next chapter will include big spoilers/excerpts from the final episode of Limetown season one. If any of you are currently listening to the podcast for the first time, you'll probably want to hold off on reading it until you've listened through "Cost-Benefit Analysis."


	6. Episode Five: Lenore Dougal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains significant spoilers for the Limetown season one finale "Cost-Benefit Analysis". Excerpts were copied by ear from the episode's dialogue.

 

Bruce trudged into the greenhouse in a bid to slip in unseen and avoid uncomfortable questions. Judging by the sounds of a news program drifting towards him from the portable radio, he was about to be caught anyway.

_“Can you please state the purpose of Limetown,” a young woman’s voice directed._

_“Straightforward. Good,” an older woman’s voice approved, businesslike.  “The purpose of Limetown was to develop a consumer prototype that allows for direct mind-to-mind communication between users, to ‘build the internet without the internet,’ as Oscar would say -- and they did it: a miracle.”_

“Who’s there? Is that you Bruce?” Alfred called, confirming Bruce’s fears just as the disgruntled billionaire stepped into view. “Bloody hell! What happened to you?!”

Selina came in through the inner door, sweeping a haughty gaze over him. She stopped in front of him, arms crossed, then frowned and sniffed the air.

“Is that cocoa powder you’ve got all over yourself?” Alfred questioned incredulously.

Bruce let out a heavy, put-upon sigh.

“How--”

“Don’t ask.”

Alfred paused to turn down the volume on the radio, beginning to enjoy the unnecessary questioning, “How _did_ you end up dusted from head to toe in chocolate?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bruce reaffirmed solemnly, unwilling to be harassed. It was at that point that Selina’s salty glower gave way and she cracked up. He waited for her to laugh herself out before informing Alfred, “I know who L.M. was.”

“Oh, yeah? ‘Finally guessed Rumpelstiltskin's name then, have you?” Alfred turned towards him, interested to hear the solution to a years’ long mystery.

“Xander Wilde,” Bruce stated, his hand absently moving to rest on the evidence tucked away in his pocket. “And I don’t think it was Jerome he was hiding from.”

“Oh, Bruce. I’m sorry. I know how much you liked L.M. He seemed like a good bloke.”

“L.M.?” Selina wondered, but Bruce had become distracted by the interview still being quietly relayed over the radio.

“What is that you’re listening to, Alfred?”

Selina harrumphed, assuming that he was blowing her off.

“Oh, this? Load of bollocks most likely, but it _is_ interesting. There’s this investigative reporter, Lia Haddock, looking into a whole bloody town full of people that disappeared overnight ten years ago.”

“Yeah. I remember hearing something about that on the news,” Selina chimed in, apparently willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, according to the leads Miss Haddock has unearthed so far, there was some sort of covert experiment going on inside. Half the town were given these implants in their heads --supposedly to allow them to read minds or some such nonsense-- and pills to help them control it. Something went wrong and the night of the disappearance there was a massive panic--”

“Pills to control their perception,” Bruce recalled the odd insight into Xander’s childhood that he had shared during his stay.

“If you like,” Alfred allowed, brow creasing faintly in response to the odd remark.

“They took him to see a man in town. Everybody looked up to him… Now they’re all dead,” Bruce muttered to himself as he began to piece together little snippets of Xander’s childhood that he’d referred to in passing. “They were kept under guard. He was slower to develop so he was taken to see the man...”

“Hold on. You’re talking about the Man They Were All There For?” Alfred asked. “Have you been listening, too, all this time?”

“Yes.” Bruce looked up to lock eyes with Selina, pulling the inconspicuously valuable implant schematic out of his pocket and showing it to her, “To Xander.”

They both turned back to Alfred in near unison,“Turn it up.”

Alfred readjusted the volume dial just as the interview took an ominous turn.

_“I want to know what happened to everyone after the Panic,” Lia Haddock pursued._

_“Right.” The older woman took in a fortifying breath, “And I know that I asked this before, but is knowing all the answers the most important thing? Really consider that,” the interviewee cautioned, “It doesn’t have to be.”_

_"It's the only reason I'm here."_

_"You have to be sure. We can still walk away from this right now."_

_"I'm sure."_

_"Okay."_

Something about the way the interviewee kept questioning felt far more foreboding than a simple need for verification. Bruce felt it in the muscles of his shoulders as he turned to Alfred with a knot forming in his gut.

"Who is the woman Lia Haddock is interviewing?"

"Lenore Dougal," Alfred provided, "She claims to have been the town planner for Limetown. Whatever that means." He answered over the "town planner's" anecdote about skydiving.

"She was the town planner for a massacred town that disappeared," Selina summarized Bruce's concerns. Alfred shushed them.

_“I haven’t been entirely honest with you; I wasn’t making bread earlier.” Lenore had just gotten up from her chair to do something. “I want to talk about worth.” There was a winding sound and then a rapid ticking began._

_“Why did you set the timer?”_

_“Because we only have twelve minutes.”_

* * *

 

Down in Xander’s maze, the same broadcast had been playing from the overhead speakers as it frequently did, while the usually religious listener within preoccupied herself with an increasingly frustrating hunt for evidence. Lenore’s message finally managed to break through her distraction.

_“This was not magic. Magic is what people invent because reality is awful. This was money, brute force and Excel sheets,” she explained, her words stark against the backdrop of that damned egg timer. “I know what I am. I see it in your face, but you’ll notice I said 162 people. There was one person without the tech I personally protected.”_

In Xander’s workroom, Ecco straightened and turned toward the speaker, stopped mid-search to receive a warning from the mercenary who’d entrusted her with Xander’s safety. _“If you’re listening: they know. It’s time.”_ Ecco found herself hoping --a thing that she rarely did-- that those words could reach Xander, too. He had never listened to the broadcast when he was with her, leaving Ecco alone in the lounge with the show playing while he worked on his projects. It hadn’t been necessary before.

_“Time for what?” the reporter asked._

_“That wasn’t for you.”_

Ecco couldn’t be certain what Xander would do if he was witnessing this figurative emergency flare going off in the psychopath’s custody. She only knew that he would try to do _something_ ; she would likely have to accelerate her time table for his sake more than her own. Harleen Quinzel had been away at University ten years ago, earning her second diploma, the last time things went to Hell in a hand-basket. Because of that and only through the inexplicable fluke that was Lenore’s mercy, she had survived with nothing and no one left but poor little traumatized Jack. Because of that, Jack and Harleen Quinzel had to become Xander Wilde and Ecco and had never dared to look back.

Ecco was a warrior: an avenging angel when she had to be, a Doctor on the Bad Days, a proxy in a crime-infested city and a loving sister in private. Ecco was many things for many reasons but one thing she refused to be was a fool who made the same mistake twice. Xander was alive; there was no other reason why his… _twin_ would break in and steal Lenore’s list, let alone know of its existence. The orphan-turned-mercenary marched over to the drafting table to retrieve her fully loaded Desert Eagle --which she’d been keeping with her ever since Jerome’s little visit-- and marched purposefully out of the room. It seemed that she had a mansion to break into tonight.

* * *

 

_“Lia, I have taken a pill that in ninety seconds will put me to sleep. In three minutes, my heart will stop beating and I will die,”_ Lenore’s voice stated, as clear and concise as ever, accompanied by fast and urgent ticking. _“Emil doesn’t agree with me, but I think you should take one, too.”_

Jeremiah sat very still in the leather, wingback chair with his forgotten teacup hovering over its saucer in his grip. He knew what was going to happen next. Although his relationship with Lenore had never been quite what one could call cordial… With a soft clink, he placed his half-empty cup on its saucer and set it aside, stood and silently left the room. He didn’t want to hear anymore. Jerome, sprawled lazily across the loveseat by the radio, glanced up at his retreating back but thankfully didn’t find it necessary to stalk him this time.

Jeremiah wandered downstairs, careful to avoid the populated areas, namely, the living room, kitchen and anywhere near the front entrance. Instead, he crept away to the library, unnoticed. There was only one person there. Martin was seated at the desk, coloring in his notebook, his tongue pressed to the side of his mouth in concentration. Jeremiah ignored the boy, dragging his gaze a tad regretfully over the massive shelves full of books that lined every wall all the way up to the vaulted, carved wood ceiling. This could be his only chance. Jerome was preoccupied with the events broadcast live from underneath a café not at all distant from their current location. With a trace of irony, Jeremiah’s own imaginary timer began counting down in his head. He grabbed one of the candles being used for ambient lighting around the edges of the cavernous space, the one on a side table closest to the massive, two-story windows.

“Martin,” he alerted the child dispassionately, passing his hand through the small flame once, idly, before he blew it out. The boy got up and stepped around the desk towards him, and turned the page in his notebook, scribbling.

\--What are you doing?--

Jeremiah tucked away the candle in his jacket. He compiled a list in his head, briefly tracing his fingertip over the handle of his hidden balisong. Pain was a valuable tool to him in this moment; it cleared his mind and got his veins pumping, two things that he very much needed but not in front of the child. He lowered his hand back into view, reminding himself that timing was everything. Jeremiah dropped down to squat in front of the Penguin’s ward, meeting the boy’s eye-level.

“I am playing a very exclusive game-- a scavenger hunt. If you want to play with me you’ll have to be very good at keeping secrets,” Jeremiah explained in a quietly amiable voice. “Are you good at keeping secrets?” Martin’s lips stretched in a slow, closed-lipped smile that reminded Jeremiah distantly of the boy’s criminal guardian. Jeremiah grinned and pulled a calligraphed list out of his pocket. “Well then, let’s have a little fun, shall we?”

* * *

 

Bruce and Selina stood at the front door to Xander’s maze. They had already hit the buzzer once, only to be met with silence. Bruce tried one more time, though he was not overly surprised by the lack of a response.

“Ecco? Are you still there?”

Nothing but static. Bruce squinted at the crack around the door’s edge, noticing for the first time that it shouldn’t be so visible. He reached up and placed his palm flat against it and pushed experimentally. The door eased open with a soft whine.

“Ecco must already have evacuated,” he concluded, unwilling to consider the alternative.

“That was fast. Whatever, at least we can have a look around for those missing pages, I guess,” Selina commented, stepping forward. At the last second, Bruce’s arm whipped out to bar her path through the open doorway, seemingly of its own volition. “What are you doing?”

Bruce frowned. “That was strange.” He considered the darkness ahead of them speculatively. Selina stepped back and turned to him expectantly awaiting his explanation. “I just got this overwhelming feeling that we shouldn’t enter. It felt like a matter of life and death.”

“Is this another ‘my ghost buddy told me so’ type of feeling, or just a hunch?”

“I’m not sure,” Bruce admitted. “I don’t really know how this is supposed to work.”

Selina rolled her eyes and walked away towards one of the trees behind him.

“Well, for one thing, I bet that normally neither of you are supposed to be dead,” she theorized, bending to pick up a decent-sized stick. She waved Bruce aside. “Here. Step back.”

Bruce took a couple steps away from the maze entrance and Selina hurled her stick into the darkness. As soon as it had crossed the threshold, bright white tendrils of electricity crackled around it, holding the stick suspended for a fraction of a second. It burst into flame and fell, blackened and smoking to the floor. Selina let out a low whistle while they both eyed the crackling remnants of her test subject.

“Note to self: don’t screw with Xander Wilde’s security systems,” she remarked drily. “I guess you’ve probably got a list of locations that he outfitted, right?”

“Yes…”

“I’m gonna want to have a peek at that, you know, just to be safe.”

“You could always stop breaking into private property,” Bruce offered.

Selina crossed her arms, giving him a warning look. “You want my help or not?”

Bruce held his hands up in submission. “It was worth a try. Do you think it’s worth driving over to test the other end of the maze?”

“Probably not.” Selina shrugged and headed for his car. “How far is it?” Bruce smiled and followed after her. The door clicked shut behind them, causing them both to jump and look back at it. The surveillance camera above the door was slowly turning away to point at the front stoop.

“The system must default to automation when nobody’s home,” Bruce realized. “It’s fine. I don’t think that there are any dangerous countermeasures on the outside.”

“That’s great,” Selina responded, not completely reassured by his words. “You ‘don’t _think’_ we’re in danger.” She ducked into the passenger seat, not protesting his choice to circle around toward the hidden backdoor a few acres to the south, regardless of her reservations.

* * *

 

_Ten years ago…_

_The cheap hotel room around them was all burnt orange, poison green and harvest gold, worn, faded upholstery. It still felt as oppressive and claustrophobic as a tomb. Jeremiah wasn’t sure where on Earth they were or how they’d gotten there. Was the journey long or short? Events around him kept skipping and he remembered one of the grown-ups muttering something about blackouts and a set of letters he didn’t understand. He knew they meant bad things, anyway; he could feel that much. Lenore grasped his shoulders in a firm but gentle grip, drawing his attention back to her face, and repeated the same nonsense again. He couldn’t remember how many times they’d gone over this, but he thought it might have taken days already._

_“Again. Repeat after me: your name is Xander Wilde. Your parents died in a car accident in Westphalia, Kansas. You have no other surviving relatives. You have never heard of Limetown. You don’t even know what it is,” she recited purposefully and he tried to play along. He really did but--_

_“I don’t like this. I want my sister!”_

_“Wrong. You’re an only child, Xander. Remember that,” Lenore disapproved. She let go of his shoulders to grab his battered teddy bear off of the bed behind her and press it to his chest. He knew that Lenore was trying to comfort him, but she was scary and he just wanted to go home. “Let’s begin again. Your name is Xander Wilde. Your parent’s died in a car accident--”_

_He started to cry and thankfully Lenore paused._

_“It’s okay to be sad,” she said matter-of-factly, touching his arm. A knock on the door cut through the oppressive silence around them and his keeper swore under her breath as she got up to answer. “Stay with him,” she directed their armed guard, pointing at Jeremiah. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” Lenore grabbed an egg timer off the side table by the door and stepped out._

_“Yes Ma’am.”_

_Jeremiah caught sight of a familiar, two-toned pigtail bun around the cracked open door in the brief moment before Lenore shut it behind her. He buried his face in his bear, trying not to think about it. Jeremiah had learned a valuable lesson from Lenore at that tender age: it is possible to bend reality to your whims, after a fashion. It is possible to make fiction indistinguishable from the truth if your will is strong enough. She had saved his life by doing just that and he could never possibly escape the results of her meticulous work._

In the present, Jeremiah had just finished collecting most of the supplies he would need to carry out his plan and was melting the base of the candle onto the far left edge of his bedroom windowsill.

_Discretion. Interest._ Jerome was standing behind him.

“Whatcha’ doin’ there, Brother?” Not angry _yet_ , but his tone belied his mild words.

Jeremiah stood, slowly, feeling a chill down his spine. He didn’t turn around at first, waiting for his twin to finish speaking.

“I heard you two were playin’ a secret game, and ya know me; I _love_ a good game!” Jerome challenged, sounding both playful and dangerous. Jeremiah turned to see an apprehensive Martin standing in front of Jerome with the killer’s hands resting on his shoulders. Jeremiah held his long, fireplace match up to his face and blew out the flame.

“How fortuitous,” he bluffed, “Our first round was wrapping up. Sadly, it seems that Martin is out of the running. Secrecy is a must if one wants to keep playing.” He smiled wanly down at the child. “Run along now. Better luck next time.”

Jerome narrowed his eyes at him, not buying the innocent act, but let go of the boy. Martin was clever enough to know when to make himself scarce.

“So, this ‘game’... At what point, exactly, does it require a straight razor?” Jerome interrogated as soon as the door had shut behind Martin, pulling said razor out of his pocket and opening it with a flick of his wrist.

_Tolerance. Expectancy._ This was a test that Jeremiah needed to pass.

His lips pressed together lightly as he gave a little half-shrug, admitting, “I may have added to the list for my own benefit, not that the boy needed to know.”

Jerome closed the gap between them, dragging him close by his collar with the hand unoccupied by a potential weapon, the blade all but forgotten; Jeremiah intuited the meaning.

“D’you think I’m stupid?!”

“ _No_ ,” Jeremiah teased in a downright patronizing tone, off-balance but not threatened.

“I already gave ya’ the knife!” Jerome scolded. “What d’ya think you’re up to here?”

“If I told you that, it would ruin the surprise,” Jeremiah quipped, easily retreating into the role of the bratty little brother. He flicked his ethereal gaze downward to his twin’s clenched fist, then back up to meet his glistening, vivianite eyes. “You’re wrinkling my shirt.”

“Oh, heck! I can’t wait; spoil it for me,” Jerome countered satirically.

Jeremiah paused to make a show of weighing his options, then drawled out “Fine. I don’t trust your friends.”

Jerome snorted and released him to rock back onto his heels. _Contentment_.

“Well _duh_. So what? Only me and Pengy know about ya.”

“And Butch, and Martin…” Jeremiah corrected.

Jerome made a circular hand gesture, dismissing his concerns before they were voiced.

“Jim Gordon knows as well, and Firefly is growing very curious about your mystery guest,” Jeremiah expounded. “Then there are the lingering perceptions of complacency.”

Jerome scowled. “Who said I’m growin’ complacent?”

Jeremiah simply arched his eyebrows, allowing him to draw his own conclusions.

“What about Butch?”

“I don’t know. Butch is… different.”

Jerome shot him a questioning look, plopping down on the loveseat with his arms and legs spread to take up a ridiculous amount of space; such careless impropriety even now was so utterly typical.

“He’s… I can’t sense him. I don’t know. It’s never happened to me before,” Jeremiah admitted. “At first, I was relieved.” He shook his head. “I have no idea what he’s thinking.”

“You can’t sense him at all?” Jerome verified, looking thoughtful.

“Emil once mentioned a little girl who was much the same; Butch is no harmless child,” Jeremiah clarified. Jerome folded the razor shut, one-handed while mulling it over.

_Levity._

“So what was the plan, huh? Say you’re right, the big guy or maybe pyro chick makes a move against us; what’re ya gonna do? Slit their throats?”

“If I must,” Jeremiah bit out through clenched teeth.

Jerome laughed at him, full-bellied, shaking with it. Jeremiah’s lips thinned as his twin doubled over under the intensity of his mirth.

“I can hardly see why that’s funny.”

“Hahaha hee aha! You?! Big bad Jere, slittin’ throats! Aha-ha!” Jerome guffawed, teary.

“Then I can have the razor,” Jeremiah reasoned.

“Heh-heh,” Jerome’s amusement vanished. “No.”

“You gave me a knife! Clearly you know that I might be capable--”

“It’s your last resort an’ we both know it. Ya won’t need it while I’m around,” Jerome dismissed, pocketing the weapon. “Which means you’ll probably never use it.”

_Irritation._ There was something else there, too. Jeremiah couldn’t think of a definition for the emotion that fit the brother he knew, so he let it go.

“Because you’re immortal,” Jeremiah mocked instead, cornered and petulant.

Jerome shrugged and threw an arm around his mopey twin’s shoulders. “Meh. Ya know I died once before; ‘didn’t keep me down long, did it?”

* * *

 

It took a while after that for Jeremiah to extricate himself from his brother’s clutches, but shortly before dinnertime, he slipped outside to stand on the raised stone terrace at the back of the house. Butch and a grey-suited stooge Jeremiah wasn’t familiar with were chatting idly nearby. Most importantly, said stooge was smoking.

“Hey, Kid. What d’ya think you’re doin’ out here? You know you’re not supposed to be outside.” Butch rested a hand on his shoulder with intent to lead the captive back indoors, not to be unfriendly --Jeremiah didn’t think-- merely to do his part for Penguin’s sake.

“No, wait. First, may I enjoy just one cigarette?” Jeremiah looked past the albino behemoth to his companion, being unabashedly theatrical in his desperation. “ _Please_ . It has been _days_.”

The guy sneered at him. _Vindictively amused. Envious._ This man had an obvious grudge against his brother, interesting.

Butch looked down at Jeremiah, weighing the risk, or so he assumed. Knowing someone whose thoughts remained a mystery was pleasant--a respite from the din-- also dangerous.

“Yeah, alright. You’d better be real quick about it. Then I’m takin’ you inside,” the Penguin’s right-hand man decided, nudging his buddy with an elbow. “Carl, give it to ‘im.”

Carl snorted. Jeremiah caught a quick flash of fantasy: poisoning him and watching Jerome break from the agony of his loss. Yeah right; Jeremiah favored Carl with a closed-lipped smile.

“Come on. Don’t be a jerk,” Butch chided, and with an unnecessarily venomous glare Carl fished a cigarette out of his pack and handed it over.

“ _Gratzi_ ,” Jeremiah told the ugly Grinch, genial as a Who. He returned his attention to Butch. “Got a light?”

Butch held out a lighter and Jeremiah whirled gracefully to make use of the flame, positioning himself on the outer ledge in front of Butch, casually enough for it to be overlooked. Jeremiah took a long draw of the cheap, nicotine fix, slowly letting the smoke out through his mouth, only to breathe it back in through his greedy nostrils. He let his head fall back, savoring his second pull of the addictive vice. Jeremiah’s eyelids fluttered shut, with the next ghostly cloud of smoke escaping his ruby lips, as his arm lazily tilted to the right and--

_BANG!_ Carl was down.

Flinching, Jeremiah drew his outstretched hand back towards his chest, in time with the thug’s falling body. One of Butch’s arms hooked around Jeremiah from behind in the next instant, hauling him back towards the door while the mobster fired blindly into the darkness with his Colt .45. Another thug ran out as Jeremiah’s arm relaxed towards him; killed instantly by single a shot. That one made Jeremiah reel a bit; his chest erupting with a stranger’s pain.

“Drop it. Drop the smoke!” Butch smacked the cigarette out of Jeremiah’s hand and all but carried him inside, shoving him through the door without caring how he landed. Jeremiah pushed himself up to sit on the floor with his back propped against the wall, still a little stunned by the violent death so close by.

“Did I hear gunshots?” Jerome’s voice announced his arrival in the tone of someone addressing the surprise party they’d walked into. He noticed Jeremiah on the floor and was standing over him with the same inexplicable speed with which he had appeared. “Jere?” He yanked his stunned twin to his feet with a bruising grip on his forearms. “Were ya’ hit?”

_Fear. Excitement. Anticipation._

Jeremiah shook his head. “Too close,” he muttered, rubbing at his chest.

“Wuss,” Jerome taunted, guiding him farther into the building with a series of rough, but conscientiously aimed shoves.

_Relief._

“Must you be so brutal?” Jeremiah protested more because he felt he was entitled to do so than due to any injury being caused to his person.

“Aw, shut up, ya baby! I’m missin’ a perfectly good shoot out ‘cause of you!”

“Oh, the guilt,” Jeremiah sassed back, unrepentant. “However, will I live with myself?”

“You recovered quickly,” Jerome noted, shoving him into a dining room chair. Penguin stepped forward to address them as they arrived, but Jerome waved him off, pouting like a spoiled toddler. “They’ve probably already got the shooter surrounded! You’re ruinin’ my good time!”

Jeremiah shrugged, reverting to the dissonantly jubilant composure that had set his brother on edge the night before. “Worry not, Dear Brother. She isn’t really there.” He was interrupted by his own unnatural fit of giggles. “Not anymore!”

Jerome spun on the spot from where he’d been peering out through the archway to stare him down, his adrenaline high taking a much darker turn; a sense of dread rushed through the elder brother, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. “Jere?”

Jeremiah’s next fit of wheezing giggles preceded a loud slam from somewhere nearby. The sound of pained groans trickled in from the two big, muscular guards posted out in the hall.

Jeremiah flipped like a switch from eerily jovial to emotionless. “She’s very angry.”

_Rising panic._ Outwardly, Jerome remained confident, unshakable. He had always been an excellent actor.

“Jere, what are you doin’?” He stomped over to grab his twin by the shoulders and forced him to meet his eye. “We’re in this together, you an’ me, remember?!”

“Don’t waste your energy. He can’t remember,” a new voice intervened from the doorway to the kitchen. Ecco strode in as if she owned the place, her gun pointed at Jerome’s head.

Oswald reflexively aimed his pistol at her heart while Jerome reached for his, thought about it, then stopped, preoccupied by Jeremiah’s trance-like state.

“You must be Pengy. Test me and this one pays with his life,” Ecco stated as if discussing the weather.

“What d’ya mean he can’t remember?” Jerome demanded as if his death didn’t matter.

_Agitation. Suspicion. Possessiveness._

“Lenore had me adjust Xander’s memories myself. The events of the massacre were too deeply embedded for more than a blurring of details, but traumas that occurred prior to his adoption were easier to suppress.” Ecco’s gaze shifted to Jeremiah, addressing the rest of her explanation directly to him. “I was about to become a psychiatrist, remember? That was one of the reasons why Lenore allowed me to keep you despite our shared history.”

“What history?” Jerome growled, rising to his full height, only to go completely ignored.

“You hypnotized me?” Jeremiah felt betrayed; Ecco had never even considered telling him what she’d done. At least then he would’ve known something was missing. For an instant she looked apologetic, then her expression smoothed out again.

“Xander, it’s time to leave. Would you please confiscate Mr. Cobblepot’s gun?” It hardly sounded like a request, not quite an order, either.

“He most certainly will not!” Oswald spat acidly, furious to be treated with such disrespect. Jerome’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him short.

“Let’s take it easy, campers. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere.” His voice lowered, carrying an unarticulated threat as he added. “After all, we’re all friends here!”

Oswald let out a derisive huff. Jerome ignored it.

“Right, Gorgeous?” There was just enough menace radiating through Jerome’s shark-like leer that anyone else would’ve seriously considered backing down, or simply running for their lives; Ecco didn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

“ _Don’t_.” Jeremiah looked warily from his brother to the only human companion he’d had for most of a decade.

“I’m not gonna do anything rash,” Jerome assured, dishonestly, at the same time that Ecco inquired, “Are you sure?” They looked at each other, affronted.

“I’m sure.” In response to Jeremiah’s soft-spoken confirmation, Ecco relaxed out of her offensive stance and holstered her weapon.

Jerome cackled. “Would ya look at that! Now _that’s_ loyalty!” He flipped open the razor blade he’d confiscated earlier, stalking forward as if he had all the time in the world, savoring.

_Anticipation. Enmity._ This was not good.

He suddenly closed the remaining space between himself and his twin’s foster sibling, holding the blade to her throat. “I gotta know, are you two...” He made a lewd gesture with his free hand, a tiger toying with his prey; this was a punishment for them both. Ecco looked to Jeremiah for guidance, unconcerned. Jeremiah’s eyes were locked unblinkingly on the razor, body frozen in terror.

“If I say that we are? Will you let her go?” he tested, causing Oswald to laugh.

“Wow, you are a _terrible_ liar!” he observed, basking in the shifting power dynamic.

“You heard her!” Jerome objected ignoring his chum. “This bitch stole your memories! Who knows what else she did to you!”

“ _She_ does,” Jeremiah reasoned. His mind raced to calculate an exit strategy. “And I know Ecco; she would never do anything to harm me. We’re--”

“ _I’m_ your family!” Jerome snarled, cutting off his ill-thought protest. His eyes were wild. Jeremiah saw the first drop of blood fall from the under the razor’s edge and sucked in a tiny panicked gasp.

“Subdue him,” he instructed without a second thought.

Ecco grabbed Jerome’s wrist, kicked his legs out from under him and pressed her foot over his throat to keep him on the ground with lightning fast efficiency and ease. She folded the razor and pocketed it. Jerome showed his teeth, his laughter shrill, raw and rabid.

“Aw yeah, Baby, subdue me!” Jerome purred, exulting in his entrapment.

Jeremiah made a face.

“I wasn’t expectin’ that!” It felt as if Jerome were referencing an earlier exchange, but Jeremiah didn’t know what it could mean until Penguin raised his gun to shoot Ecco in the head. Jeremiah leapt to his feet, placing himself between the two armed killers.

“Xander!” Ecco protested, pulling her own weapon to aim past him at the mobster as best she could. She didn’t have a clear shot. He’d made sure that neither of them did. Jerome drew in a deep breath, swiping an imaginary tear from his eye with the hand not casually resting over Ecco’s pinning boot.

“Ah, that was fun! I needed that. Okay, Pengy, ya’ made your point. No one’s shootin’ anybody tonight.”

“Uh, _hello_! She killed two of my men?”

“Who hasn’t?” Jerome joked, one hand finger-crawled upwards to tickle the back of Ecco’s knee, she jerked her foot in retribution. “Ckhhk! I get it.”

Oswald lowered his gun barely an inch. His frigid gaze bored into Jeremiah with a ruthlessness that evoked his first impression of the mobster when they’d met.

“Release him.” It was an ultimatum. Jeremiah had no doubt that he’d shoot Ecco straight through him if challenged. Jerome chuckled; unaware that his brother was in any real danger. Jeremiah bid his bodyguard to back off with a subtle nod. Oswald only lowered his gun once the maniac was back on his feet.

“If your concern is only for the wellbeing of your men I am willing to provide medical treatment,” Ecco offered.

“She’s very good,” Jeremiah praised and saw Oswald give begrudging nod.

“A truce, then? Oh well, ya can’t win ‘em all,” Jerome remarked, deceptively companionable. “You know ya’ got cute little feet by the w-- Augh!” Ecco cut Jerome off by pistol whipping him. The action was so sudden and impulsive that it caught even Jeremiah completely off-guard.

“You made me think Xander was dead!”

“So’d he!” Jerome retorted, but Ecco merely jerked her head towards her wincing charge. Jeremiah was bent forward, rubbing at his jaw and shaking the haze clear of his head while Penguin looked on, intrigued. Ecco hurried over to pull Jeremiah upright. She cupped his jaw between her hands and turned his head from side to side, checking for signs of mistreatment.

“Sorry! Shh, I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”

Jeremiah simply nodded, letting her pull him closer to press their foreheads together. He closed his eyes, letting his longest-term anchor draw him back into the safety of her thoughts.

“I understand. I’m better now.”

Ecco pulled back, scrutinizing his expression to confirm it for herself, then returned to the usual businesslike front she used around everyone else. “Have you chosen a name yet?”

“I like it better when you do. I don’t suppose there’s any chance--”

Ecco pulled a brand new pack of Crossroad Slims out of her back pocket and pressed them into his hand.

“I _love_ you.”

Ecco smirked, jaded. “Were you talking to me or the cigarettes?”

Jeremiah smiled cheekily. “Yes.”

“Boring!” Jerome barked and struck. Ecco jerked forward and collapsed into Jeremiah’s arms.

“No!” he dropped to his knees, cradling her unconscious body. Jerome kissed his knuckles theatrically.

“Can it, Broski. We coulda’ killed her,” he remarked, still very much considering that course of action. Jeremiah clung to Ecco even tighter, internally seething, head throbbing with other people’s injuries.


	7. Mini-Episode: One Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Child abuse, implications of molestation.

 

Jerome noticed something suspicious going on between his younger twin and their useless excuse for an Uncle almost as soon as the big, smelly lug climbed into the trailer. Jerome had always hated the guy, but his twin was usually outwardly indifferent towards anyone who wasn’t Jerome or their mom. Only now, Jerome looked up from pouring their Mother’s coffee to see the scrawny little nerd pressing himself back into the padding of the booth as Uncle Zach walked by, as if he were trying to disappear.

“That’s enough,” Mother warned, closely preventing her distracted offspring from overfilling her mug. “Just leave the creamer.” She flicked his ear. “And wake up, Boy! The bacon’s smoking!”

Jerome hurried to deal with the minor crisis in the making. Luckily, nothing was badly burned and he spooned out the scrambled eggs onto four plates, dividing the bacon between three. He gave Jere extra toast topped with the last of the peanut butter instead and cut off the crust so it’d actually be eaten. He hurried to serve breakfast and reached his goal just in time to snag the seat beside his twin before Zach could.

“Ay!? What’s with this? Ya’ run out of meat, kid? Why don’cha share with your brother?” the big man rumbled, clunking down in the booth beside his sister.

“Jere doesn’t like bacon,” Jerome responded bluntly.

“Don’t you?” Lila Valeska questioned, proving her own ignorance in regards to her favorite son.

Jeremiah shook his head, keeping his eyes pointed down at his plate almost as if he were afraid to look anywhere else.

“He doesn’t eat red food, Ma,” Jerome reminded his mother. Of course _he_ had to do it; the little coward never spoke for himself.

“Oh,” their mother chuckled and hiccuped, playing it off as a joke. “Kids.”

Jerome ignored it and instead wolfed down his meal to keep up with his brother’s obvious hurry. They had cleaned off their plates by the time the adults were even halfway done eating. Jerome looked to his right to see his twin watching him expectantly.

“Yeah, come on,” he mumbled, crossed over to stand with him at the sink. Jeremiah did their dishes while Jerome leaned against the stove beside him, staring hatefully at their Uncle. He didn’t voice his suspicions aloud until they were were outside, walking in the direction of the main tent. Jere was mostly interested in his little red notebook, but that was okay. The kid could multitask like a champ.

“You were actin’ weird this morning. Why’re you so scared of Uncle Zach?”

Jeremiah shook his head, then paused to push his cheap, ill-fitting glasses back up his nose. He’d been returning to his usual quietly curious self but seemed to wilt at the mention of their Uncle.

“Don’t give me that. I _know_ you; you’re upset. What did he do?” Jerome pursued, snatching his brother’s notebook away to show he meant business. “You don’t keep secrets from me!”

“I’m not!” Jeremiah’s quiet voice made its debut for the day.

“Then why are ya so scared? Don’t lie!”

Jeremiah’s wide, blue-grey eyes blinked at him owlishly a couple of times, then he looked away, muttering out an answer that Jerome barely caught, “Not Uncle Zach.”

Jerome frowned, not knowing what that could possibly be supposed to mean. He would’ve asked for clarification, but Jeremiah had scrambled up a tree to check on the little bird’s nest they’d spotted up in the higher branches last Thursday. He had gotten it into his head that tracking the progress of the nest’s development was somehow an interesting thing to do with his time. Jerome was coping with it as best he could, reminding himself that Mother would definitely blame him if Jeremiah cracked his head open falling out of a tree. He heard an ominous snap from above and a thump-thump-huff that indicated his brother had probably fallen part way down said tree. Reflexively, Jerome reached out to catch the falling glasses that they couldn’t afford to replace.

“Jere, get your scrawny butt down here! You ain’t trackin’ anything with your crappy eyes,” he shouted to the stunned-looking redhead dangling upside down from a branch above.

“That hurt,” his twin’s softer voice reported.

“Congratulations, Captain Obvious,” Jerome mocked, enjoying the show as Jeremiah struggled to turn himself right-side up, awkwardly flip-flopping into a tumble that ended with him landing on his feet through sheer dumb luck. “Nice.” Jerome passed the glasses back.

“May I please have my-- No!”

Jerome threw the spiraled notebook farther into the jungle of tents and trailers, laughing at the way Jeremiah bolted after the thing as if his life depended on it. Smiling to himself, Jerome headed away to find something fun to do with his brief respite from nerd-watch duty. When Jeremiah found him again --as he somehow always managed to--around ten minutes later, Jerome was in the woods to one side of their camp, locked in a rock vs. acorn firefight with a surprisingly feisty squirrel. He could tell precisely when his twin caught up to him by the sound of a put-upon sigh from somewhere behind him, followed by the crisp sound of pages turning. _Someday_ , Jerome consoled himself internally, he was going to figure out how his clingy twin kept finding him so friggin’ fast. Then he’d be free to do whatever he wanted. The little wuss would have to find someone else to talk and turn door knobs for him eventually. Jerome wasn’t sure why he always felt the need to justify his dreams of solitude to himself; he just did.

When they got back to the trailer that evening, their mother took one look at Jeremiah’s puffy red eyes and whacked the older twin upside the head with the damp dish towel in her hands in lieu of a greeting.

“What now, Boy! Why’d you make your brother cry?!”

“My name’s Jerome. Ow!” Jerome glared and covered his ear. Mother had whipped it with her towel, backing it up with a stream of rapid fire Romany that he tried not to take to heart. “He’s too soft, Ma! He’s just upset about a dead squirrel he saw! Tell her Jere!”

Jeremiah began nodding animatedly right on cue, eyes wide and pleading.

“Oh, yeah a squirrel he _saw…_ ”

Jerome glared hatefully at the fat man slumped on _his_ couch.

“Oh, my poor, sensitive, little boy! Come here.” Their mother tugged Jeremiah into a too-tight hug. The silent twin limply tolerated it, staring at his once again grumbling brother in a silent plea for rescue. Jerome ignored him entirely in favor of pursuing dinner.

“Set the table, eh? Your Uncle’s gonna be eating with us tonight,” Lila ordered.

“Yes, Ma.”

Dinner that night for Jerome consisted of glaring bitterly into his food and trying to ignore his brother’s obnoxiously loud breathing. He didn’t even want to know what that was about.

“Hey, Jeremiah! Your Mom an’ I made you this dinner, you’re not gonna waste it!”

Jerome looked up in response to Uncle Zach’s words, glanced inquiringly at his brother’s plate, then switched them with a long suffering grumble about no one ever listening to him. Jeremiah dutifully started in on Jerome’s remaining mashed potatoes and peas.

“What was that?” their mother wondered without looking up.

“Ketchup is red, Ma,” Jerome explained for the thousandth time, taking a bite of meatloaf. He bet she wouldn’t find her spoiled little baby so adorable if he actually had the guts to speak for himself.

She chuckled drunkenly. “Silly boys...”

Thankfully both twins went ignored for the rest of the dinner, only being addressed by the adults again when it was time for them to clean up. After they were finished, Jere scurried over, gave their mom a peck on the cheek and vanished into his room to study before bunking down for the night. It was only 7 in the afternoon: early even for him. That was what made up Jerome’s mind, oddly enough. His twin had always been weird, but reliably so. This was wrong and he decided he was going to get to the bottom of it one way or another. Finding the truth was deceptively easy. All Jerome had to do was wait and when Uncle Zach sneaked back into the trailer that night, he almost wished he didn’t know. Maybe then things would be different.

He crept towards Jere’s room, drawn onward by the strange frantic chanting. Jerome couldn’t quite make out his breathless words. He heard sounds of a struggle and that loud wheezing was back. Jerome reached the doorway to his brother’s bedroom to witness a sight straight out of his nightmares. Their Uncle Zach was looming over Jere’s fold-away bed with the boy clinging to the edges of the built in headboard hard enough to leave claw marks in the leather. Zach had a bruising grip on his scrawny, thrashing legs and was trying to drag him out from under his tangled covers. Jere was breathless and frantic, eyes wide as saucers. His words were finally discernible.

“Touching me, touching me! It’s touching me! Make it stop!” over and over came the twisted, pleading chant. Something in Jerome snapped.

“Let him go!” he demanded in the most threatening voice a nine-year-old boy could muster. He didn’t sound like himself anymore, more like the menacing presence he would later become. Considering that, there should have been more of an impact; the mountain of a man showed no indication that he was aware of anything but his efforts to drag Jeremiah into his monstrous clutches. Jeremiah let out a horrible whimper and his right hand slipped.  Jerome saw red. There was no more conscious thought, just a bottle of lighter fluid on the kitchen counter, a candle on the little tray table by the doorway. Accelerant glistened in the air like gems as it splashed onto Uncle Zach’s flannel overshirt and shined even more beautifully when the candle gave it light. Jerome didn’t particularly care about the pervert’s flailing, thrashing, and cursing nor the way that the fire started to spread as he fell against the foot of Jere’s bed. Jerome was too busy pulling his twin into his arms, grabbing his pillow and an undamaged blanket, and marching the sniffling boy over to his couch. The flames were smothered quickly once mother woke and came running. Jerome didn’t care about that either. The things Uncle Zach had done to him were a sacrifice: necessary but worth it, so long as it was only him. That line had been crossed and there should be Hell to pay. There would be once he had the time.

Jere didn’t speak at all the next day even when they were completely alone. He only stared, frightened and tense, as if he were waiting for something terrible to happen. Jerome didn’t push him. He did what he had to: made sure that if there ever was a next time, Jere would be ready. He showed him how to use the balisong and told himself he’d never really need it.

“Keep this with you. It’s for when I’m not around. You gotta use this to do what I do for ya’. Understand?” He didn’t let go of Jere’s hand or move his stare from Jere’s wide eyes until the other boy had nodded and meant it.

The next day Jerome woke up and Jere simply wasn’t there. No one would tell him where he’d gone. They all agreed that it was because of him. There were stories going around about terrible things that he’d never done, but no one would believe him. At first Jerome tried not to panic and waited for the inevitable; Jere was never far from him for long and that’s just the way things were, only this time his twin didn’t find him again. Jerome had the solitude to do what he wanted, alone. No one cared, their mother rarely even looked in his direction anymore. Jerome’s idle wish had been granted and it was the worst thing of all.


	8. Episode Six: Dr. Totem recording

 

Bruce marched up the dark staircase to his room to drop onto his bed, fully clothed and on top of the covers. He did manage enough effort to kick his shoes off, for the sake of Alfred’s blood pressure, if nothing else. Speaking of which, Selina had wandered into the kitchen to harass the aforementioned Butler while he cooked dinner; if Bruce weren’t feeling so defeated and rudderless, he would’ve stopped her. He let his eyes fall shut and was just beginning to fall asleep when he realized that he was no longer alone in the room. That wasn’t quite true. He was alone in his bedroom, but someone was with him. He felt a phantom presence beside him. It was so convincingly vivid that Bruce could picture the redhead sitting cross-legged by his feet on the end of his king-sized bed.

“Xander.” It was the first time that he had engaged the ghost in his mind directly and he felt a little nervous about what might happen now that he had. There was an uncertain pause infused with… surprise?

“Bruce?” Xander seemed to be questioning the wisdom of their interaction.

“Thank you for saving us from your maze’s security measures. I don’t really understand how this works, but I hope you…” Bruce trailed off, unwilling to voice the rest, for fear of what the answer might be. His friend was dead, but he was also right there, alive --in some sense-- so long as Bruce didn’t open his eyes and test it.

“This is a strange dream,” Xander observed. A strange and disturbing thought struck Bruce: did Xander not know that he was dead? Bruce tried to banish the idea before it could be noticed, uncertain of what effect it would have. There was a brief silence as Xander mulled things over. If he’d noticed Bruce’s slip, he didn’t let it show.

“We are taught in early science courses that sunlight is a requirement for life as we know it, but the nature of life isn’t so simple. There are exceptions to every rule-- nearly,” Jeremiah pondered distractedly, his voice sounding oddly smooth and detached. “Entire miniature ecosystems exist deep in caves: little fishes, amphibians and insects who’ve lived cut off from sunlight for so long look nothing like their free, sunlit ancestors. They’ve become pale, changed and grotesque. Perhaps their eyes have grown bulbous while adapting to the unending dark, or they’ve evolved strange spines or feelers to sense what those with the light to see never needed. Sometimes the air around them is poisoned with toxic gas; their atmosphere turned caustic yet the creatures adapted to thrive on harshness-- not unlike Jerome. Cut off from the warmth and company of the outside world we turned into something _monstrous_...”

“You were never a monster, Xander. You’re my friend.”

“You didn’t even know me.”

“I didn’t recognize you,” Bruce admitted with unmasked guilt, trying not to think of all the what-ifs that had been plaguing him ever since that day on the stage. “I still knew you. I always knew you were a friend, L.M., even when I thought that you were someone else. You are my friend. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Xander seemed to step away-- for lack of a more accurate description-- and Bruce could no longer feel certain of his presence. He was more tempted than ever to look, despite knowing that it would break the illusion as it had on the roof, then Xander laughed. It didn’t sound right, a breathless-sounding giggle tinged with desperation that reminded Bruce of the gash he’d watched Jerome slice into his throat.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Xander dismissed in an undertone, once again sounding as if he were merely thinking it to himself. “It’s not as if he’d _really_ do it. Turns out, I’m his favorite pet. Why dream about this? I don’t want to think about Jerome’s... theatrics.”

“This isn’t a dream. You’re not--” Bruce paused to process his friend’s behavior and changed tack. “Xander, do you know where we are?”

“In my head, I guess. ‘Pretty dark in here.” The ghost’s attempt at a joke fell flat. Bruce swallowed against the lump threatening to form in his throat.

“I laid down on my bed a few minutes ago, then I heard your voice. This could be a dream, but it’s not yours.”

He heard Xander turn on the spot to face him, startled. That was new, almost as if the other was literally present in the room rather than a suggestion altering his perception.

“I know that _I’m_ real,” Bruce posited carefully. “I believe that you are, too.”

Xander’s presence neared, considering him intently. Bruce could feel the engineer’s mind dissecting his past statements until he inquired in a softer, more familiar tone “What were you doing at the bunker?”

“I thought-- Selina and I were trying to search for more of the pages that you ripped out of your notebook, now that Ecco’s gone. I found the diagram of the implant that you hid in your cigarette drawer before she evacuated.”

“You visited her.”

“To propose a project to finish development of your electric generator,” Bruce confirmed, dutifully leaving out _“in your memory”_ and trying not to think of it. “She sealed me in the lounge but I used the failsafe switch in the bookshelf and escaped. I didn’t have time to search for anything else.”

“Ecco tried to trap you in the maze?” Xander pondered, sounding colder again. He muttered under his breath “What else is she not telling me?”

Bruce remembered her bruises, the bandage on her hand and her words when she’d locked him in.

“She threatened you?!”

“Why is the document so important?” Bruce forewent the conflict arising in regards to Xander’s bodyguard. “If information about this technology is so dangerous--”

“It is important to keep sight of the bigger picture, Bruce. Imagine what this technology represents. I know what you’re thinking-- Hmm, more or less. You can’t sneak up on me, can’t fool me, can’t be sure that you’re keeping any secrets when I’m around, all because of this terrible little miracle lodged in my brain,” he was the closest he had ever felt, hovering over Bruce like a storm cloud. “Imagine, a battalion of soldiers that can get into the enemy’s head as I do yours. They communicate without sound or signal in the original unbreakable code: pure thought. Imagine all that power, and the formidable knowledge it entails is under a single organization’s monopoly, beyond any government, or any oversight. What do you think they’ll do with this invention? How far do you imagine the people who stuck this implant in a child’s head just to see what happens will go to keep it?” The weight of Jeremiah’s uncharacteristically intimidating presence eased and he said in a milder tone. “That’s why I don’t want you to find the other pages, Bruce. Each messenger of each puzzle piece has to be disassociated from the others for your safety. The people trying to cover everything up will use any connections they find to hunt everyone down and burn it all, all over again. I can’t have that, not again, and certainly not with you.”

“You’re a hypocrite!” Bruce accused, feeling rage flare through him.

Xander hesitated, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You came here because you trusted me and instead of protecting you, I talked you into going up on that stage. Now I’m just supposed to bury my head in the sand because you don’t want to risk _my_ life?”

“Yes,” Xander responded, trying to quell the teenager’s rage with his own calm.

“That’s hypocritical!”

“This is different.”

“How!” Bruce shouted, opening his eyes to glare up at the ceiling as Jeremiah wasn’t there to take the brunt of it himself. That fact only made Bruce angrier, though not truly at Xander, if he was being honest with himself.

“This will get you killed.”

Bruce’s brow creased indignantly. “It’s exactly the same! I watched you die and there was nothing--” he stopped short, overwhelmed by intense regret; Xander was gone.

“Who are you yelling at?” Selina’s voice questioned, prompting Bruce to sit up and look at her, miserable. She was leaning against the doorframe with one hand propped on her hip, casually judging him.

“Xander,” Bruce confessed.

“That’s creepy. No big deal. I was thinking: what does your ghost buddy know about the tapes that Lenore lady sent to the missing reporter’s broadcast station?”

“APR. I don’t know. He’s gone,” Bruce told her, getting up and heading out of his bedroom. “We don’t have much time. I’ll need to fly down there immediately to see if I can beat them to it. Alfred!” He made it halfway down the stairs then stopped. “Selina, you have a good grasp of Gotham’s underworld.”

“Sure. Why?”

“If I needed to connect with someone powerful and dangerous enough to hold their own against a force comparable to the GCPD, but reasonable enough to want what is best for the city--”

“Penguin. You’re asking about a deal with Penguin, and no, you can never be sure that he won’t stab you in the back,” Selina answered over the end of his question. “Why would _you_ do a thing like that?”

* * *

 

Jeremiah opened his eyes, staring at the ornate wallpaper without truly seeing it. He was back in the guest bedroom at the Penguin’s mansion, where he’d drifted off against a post at the foot of his four poster bed. He had been somewhere else a moment ago. He believed Bruce; it had been real. He’d been back at Wayne Manor as if his consciousness had fled his body to escape his family’s pain. With a deep, determined breath, Jeremiah blinked once, slowly, centering himself. He then held up his hand, refusing to acknowledge Ecco’s physical pain ebbing back into his shoulder joints, jaw and left eye. The tremors had returned, he noted. It wasn’t the same as the physical symptoms coming from his brother’s wrathful play with his new captive. The murderous glee and lingering, territorial rage were plaguing Jeremiah too, of course. The problem was the dissonance: too many competing signals were taking their toll on his nervous system.

_Enjoyment mixed with pain. Boredom with overstimulation. Hatred with--_

“Enough,” Jeremiah stated in a firm-if-quiet voice. “I’m in three places at once.” He looked down at himself in an understated reassessment. “Four. This is unsustainable.” He squeezed his eye shut against the sensation of a punch landing across Ecco’s face and the patronizing amusement as she chuckled at her attacker. At least she wasn’t scared; then they’d be in trouble. This meant that he would have to reorganize his plan. “Well, it is as they say: there’s no rest for the wicked.”

* * *

 

The next morning Bruce needlessly straightened the jacket of his jet black, Westwood suit as he stepped out of the elevator and strode over to the circular oak reception desk at APR. The receptionist was a jumpy-looking, middle-aged woman with an expensive manicure that had begun to chip, overlooked. The rose gold frames of her glasses were perfectly matched to her pink-and-gold tweed suit. Everything about her not-quite-perfectly put-together appearance and the shadows under her eyes-- not quite hidden under carefully applied makeup-- spoke of sudden stress.

“Excuse me,” Bruce tried to be gentle in alerting the poor woman to his arrival, but she still visibly startled at the sound of his voice.

“Oh. Hello, S-Sir. How may I help you?”

“My name is Bruce Wayne. I have an appointment to speak with one of your producers here, a…” Bruce paused to check in the little black notebook he’d kept tucked in his pocket. “Mark Green?”

The receptionist’s brow furrowed for a moment as she turned back to her computer. “Mr. Green -- you’re sure that’s who you’re meeting?”

“I am. Is he not in today?” Bruce inquired, watching the woman’s fingers dance over her keyboard.

“He is. I-- Oh. I see. There you are. Right on time, too,” the receptionist observed reaching for her desk phone. “One moment please, Mr. Wayne. I’ll just call to let him know that you’re here.” The woman turned to do just that and as she was turning back, politely beginning, “Mr. Green, your eight o’clock--”

A feeling of calm flowed through Bruce and his gaze wandered to the monitor just as it went black-- “they’re coming” blinked in white block letters against the dead screen-- then the calendar display flashed back on. The receptionist saw it, too, or at least she saw the screen turning off, and stared in silence as it turned back on. She reached for her mouse, glancing at him in question.

“That was odd,” Bruce acknowledged mildly to let her know that she wasn’t seeing things. He didn’t mention anything specific in case it was he who was seeing things, keeping the warning in mind. It should have been disturbing, yet he still felt the foreign calm, centering him.

“Sorry, Sir. My computer is having an issue. As I was saying, Mr… What in the world?”

Bruce looked over her shoulder. The readout had been changed. His appointment had been erased and Mr. Green’s schedule had been cleared from eight a.m. onward. Bruce silently disappeared down the hall past the distracted receptionist’s back, just as the elevator dinged, announcing new arrivals. Bruce ducked through the janitor’s closet and watched two athletically-built men arriving through a thin crack. They were both dressed in nondescript, business attire; one tan and one grey trench coat over plain, white button-downs with charcoal ties only slightly differentiated by width. They both had closely cropped hair and guarded expressions. Bruce could see them sweep assessing gazes over their surroundings and quietly shut the door before their assessment reached him. Bruce waited in the dark, listening while the men told the frazzled receptionist that they were there to see Mark Green. When she attempted to delay them, they insisted, claiming to be Agent Smith and Agent Miller. Bruce quietly scoffed. They were here about the missing reporter. They didn’t even bother to use Lia Haddock’s name until the receptionist did. She submitted pretty quickly and led them to her boss’ office and Bruce only stepped out from his hiding place once they were inside. He felt a little guilty for scaring the poor woman as he intercepted her on her way back to her desk. She jumped about a foot in the air at the sight of him and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce told her in a near whisper. “I realize it may be unfair for me to ask you this, but I need to know where Miss Haddock kept her records related to her last story? Did she have an office here?”

“Yes, but…” The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “What is your interest in that, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce looked past her to the thankfully closed door to Mr. Green’s office, then back at her. His window of opportunity was closing fast; it was time to go for broke. “Listen, you know who I am. I’m not working with any covert interest. I’m just--” Bruce shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling his window of opportunity closing. “I’m here because my friend was one of the subjects that Lia Haddock was pursuing for an interview. You heard what happened. You know what could happen if the wrong people find him. I’m just trying to make sure they don’t use her work to take him, too. Please. If you could’ve known what was coming for her, wouldn’t you have tried to do something? All you have to do is tell me where to look. If I’m caught, I promise I won’t let it affect you.” Bruce checked the office down the hall and thought he saw a hint of movement through the thin window by the door. The receptionist studied him for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision, heading past him.

“Fine. Follow me.” She whispered nervously “I can’t believe I’m doing this!”

She led him back around her desk into the other hall that fanned out in a mirror image of the one they’d left until it curled at the far end to reveal a hidden nautilus of work spaces. Lia’s untouched storage area-- obviously never used as a proper office-- was right at the turning point, on the left. The receptionist unlocked the door for him and waved him inside.

“Thank you, I--”

“No offense, Mr. Wayne, but we never met,” the woman interrupted pointedly, looking around to make sure they remained unseen. Bruce sobered.

“Of course.”

She hastily fled for the safety of her work-space without even a glance back at him and Bruce began to search the kidnapped reporter’s office just as swiftly. He knew that he had to make it appear as if he was never there or lives could be at risk. He flipped through the spiral notebook he’d discovered in the desk drawer, filled with scribbled notes, news clippings and a photo or two. He took pictures of each page with his phone and secreted the loose photos into his lapel pocket. He was about to close and replace it when he saw the list of names laid out on the last page of possible interviews: a list of Limetown witnesses and survivors with the names of those Lia Haddock had already interviewed crossed out. Bruce set his jaw and neatly tore the page out, tucking it safely away in his coat before returning the notebook to its previous placement.

By the time he located Lenore’s box of audio tapes on a shelf in the far corner, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay much longer without risking discovery. He opened the cardboard box on the the torn vinyl seat of the desk-facing visitor’s chair and began looking through neatly labeled cassettes. Most of them were marked with a subject’s first name and a date; others bore simply a nebulous code phrase like “the Subject” or “the Bridge- Jan 1, 09:00.” No Xander nor Jeremiah, nor Ecco. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Bruce wished that he could simply take them all. Instead he pulled the small, collapsible messenger bag out from where he’d kept it hidden under the back of his coat. He grabbed an old, abused tape recorder off of Miss Haddock’s desk and tested a tape in it at random. It was one of the “Bridge” tapes. What he heard chilled his blood.

_“They’re dead! The children are dead!” A man’s voice was shouting, mad with horror over indistinct chaos filling the background while a firmer voice, replied, nearly lost in the din:_

_“Stop it, Daniel!”_

_“The children are dead so why do I hear them screaming!”_ the first voice wailed even louder, overcome. Bruce had never hit a stop button with quite so much vigor in his life. He swallowed and carefully replaced the Bridge tape in its slot, moving on to the subject tapes even as his blood pounded in his ears. He tried another, marked “Bobby” but dismissed it when met with a woman’s bored-sounding voice. The next tape was one that caught his interest by way of sheer incongruity; the earliest tape he’d seen associated with the subject “Jack” was dated a good two years later than any of the other subject blocks he’d seen, while the others’ varied by a few months at most.

_“May, the 14th, Dr. Totem recording. Listen, I’m going to need you to try to talk to me now, directly,” Oscar Totem instructed, impatient but intrigued. “No, no. Jack, we’ve been over this. Don’t look at the guard.” A sigh._

_There was a soft, amused rumble from somewhere in the background, presumably the guard, and a distant, unnervingly familiar voice prompted. “He needs you to talk out loud. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”_

_“Please don’t intrude in an ongoing session,” the scientist corrected stiffly._

_“Yes, Sir.”_

After that there was a short silence and Bruce found his attention drifting to the door until a child’s voice snapped him back into focus.

_“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Even as different as he sounded, small, high-pitched and so, so young, Bruce would recognize Xander’s tentative voice anywhere._

_“‘It’s alright, Jack, no need to be shy. We’re just talking. No, not with Daniel. You’re_ **_talking_ ** _to me right now. Why do you find talking to be so difficult?--”_

Bruce stopped the tape there, very aware that he was out of time. He made sure to take every single one of “Jack’s” recordings with him along with a random batch of others regarding subjects who hadn’t yet been exposed by the reporter. He stepped into the hall as three men neared from the other end, and ducked out of sight just in time to go unnoticed. Bruce waited to hear Miss Haddock’s office door click shut behind them and blew out the breath he’d been holding. That was too close.

* * *

 

Jerome had been down in the basement with Ecco since breakfast. Inexplicably, things had gotten a lot less antagonistic between them since the previous night. At this point, he wasn’t feeling all that violent, more torn between trying to flirt his way into her pants and killing her to teach his arrogant twin a lesson. So far, Jerome was hovering around the conclusion that Ecco was too friggin’ cute to murder yet, but that could change at any moment; the peroxide bitch still kept insinuating that he was too much of a threat to be allowed custody over his brother. They were all adults for crying out loud-- Okay, yeah. Upon reflection, someone should probably have custody over his headcase of a twin, but that person could only ever be Jerome.

“You’re wrong about me an’ Jere! I might be a little crazy. So, I killed our parents --they had it comin’-- but I never laid a hand on Jere! He’s my twin, my responsibility; he’s a part of _me_ ! Hell, when we were kids I had to be his voice, too, if people were around. No one asked me what _I_ wanted. I just did it, ‘cause Jere always got what he wanted from _me_ ! He’s _mine_!” Jerome shouted into the face of his brother’s supposed protector. He’d gone through a lot of shit because of Jere, or maybe he’d done it for Jere. He wasn’t so sure anymore, over time the distinction had become distorted, his anger conflated with the raw, open wound from his abandonment that had never quite healed over.

Ecco stared at him, stunned. “His voice?”

“Wow. That’s what throws you off, huh?” Jerome observed jadedly. He added in a brief chuckle just for appearance’s sake.

“No, I… Jack wouldn’t speak a word for over a month after he was adopted. Emil said he’d come from an abusive home so we all thought-- Even after that, he used to whisper into my ear when we were around unfamiliar people-- I guess that he did that with you first.”

Jerome was giving her a look that was equal parts amused and bemused. “Nope.”

Ecco looked perturbed. “Then how did you know what he wanted to say?”

“I just did,” Jerome took a moment to reflect on that fact for what might very well be the first time ever and let out a genuine laugh. “Weird, I guess. Come to think of it.” He shrugged it off. “Meh. Must be a twin thing.”

“You knew what he was thinking,” Ecco thought aloud as if she hadn’t heard him, becoming discomfited for some reason that Jerome couldn’t understand. “ _Before_ he was adopted...”

“It’s not like I could know what he’s thinkin’ when he’s not around,” Jerome pointed out as if she were being silly. He was pretty sure that she was -- maybe he’d hit her a little too hard last night. Maybe he’d simply knocked her out too many times, too close together. That was a thing, right?

“I know, but..”

“Boring!” Jerome intercepted, not really wanting to know what she was looking so freaked about. “I kinda wanna kill somebody! You?”

“I’d kill for something to drink,” Ecco responded boldly, hiding her discomfort once again behind her practiced mask. Jerome clicked his tongue and winked before dashing upstairs toward the Penguin’s study without any indication of whether he would heed her request. The two human boulders that Penguin had assigned to guard her exchanged a look as if silently placing their bets.

“Hey! I’m walkin’ here!” Jerome’s voice trickled down, his accent heavier than usual, likely for effect. Ecco heard a thump and an annoyed grunt, followed by a gunshot. An unfamiliar voice cried out in agony.

“Clumsy jerk,” Jerome sneered, followed closely by Oswald’s exclamation.

“Jerome, that man was a valued informant! I shouldn’t have to say this! Quit killing my men!”

“Haha! Whoops!” Jerome responded enthusiastically, scampering out of Ecco’s range of hearing. She heard more thumping around, then the albino’s voice.

“Hey, Oswald. I don’t think he’s dead yet. You want me to--”

“Victor!” Oswald hollered, impatiently over the end of his comrade’s question and multiple people started shuffling around, carrying out the moody kingpin’s bidding.

A few minutes later, Jerome’s boots came clunking down the basement steps and he deposited himself back in his stool across from her, holding a bottle of milk.

“The little guy can really belt it out when he wants to,” Ecco remarked in lieu of a greeting. Jerome screwed the cap off the milk bottle and chugged a good quarter of its contents instead of a response, then let out a massive belch.

“Mind sharing the bounty?” Ecco asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him. Jerome made a show of contemplating his milk. Then held it out towards her. “Sure. Take it.” Then he smacked his forehead with his gloved hand at his false forgetfulness. “Oh! Guess not!” He laughed shrilly. Ecco picked her feet up and rested them in his lap, prompting a surprised, pleased smile from her mercurial captor.

“He still have that weird thing about food?” Jerome inquired, throwing her for a loop.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’ worry about it,” he took another drink of milk, resting a hand over her feet as Ecco cast about in her mind for a translation.

“Red foods,” she belatedly recalled. “No dairy after dark.”

“Bingo! Wait. The dairy thing is new,” Jerome paused to process that, idly untying her shoelaces without looking down.

“It might have something to do with the pills they had him taking. They would sometimes make him throw up, especially after he’d eaten animal products.”

“Yeah, about that...” Jerome stopped short and glanced back at the guards. “You’re dismissed.”

“But Penguin--” he was cut off by Jerome impulsively tossing one of Ecco’s boots at him. She laughed and wriggled her toes.

“I said leave!” Jerome snarled, paused for thought, then threw the other boot at his head. His rage lulled to a deceptive lightness as he glanced down at the feet in his lap. “Rainbow socks!” he approved. “You are just full o’ surprises!” Jerome turned a vicious glare on the lingering guards. “Why are you still here!”

The thugs exchanged unsettled looks.

“The boss gave explicit orders not to leave you down here alone.”

Jerome growled; one of the thugs surrendered and left. The larger one stood his ground.

“Wit’ due respect--”

“Whatever.” Jerome pulled his gun and shot the man right between the eyes, then turned back around to face Ecco. The dead thug’s blood flecked his grinning face. “So! Where were we? Oh yeah, you were gonna tell me all about your buddies’ lil’ experiment.”

* * *

 

 

The first time Jerome actually talked with, rather than at, Jeremiah that day, the latter was sitting with Martin in the lounge, watching kids’ T.V. on the old, ‘70s’ vintage television set that Oswald occasionally allowed the child to set up for a couple hours’ use. Sesame Street was the current indulgence of choice and it was calling back one of the rare happy memories from the twins’ childhood together. One that Jere could enjoy --headache free-- now that Ecco had brought him his spare pair of glasses. Jerome walked past behind the couch the two were seated on and out of the room, then literally backtracked to stand behind his brother’s seat and eye the screen.

“Yes, this show is still running,” Jeremiah intoned, popping a juicy green grape into his mouth from the big, blue and white china serving bowl he and Martin were sharing.

“Huh.” Jerome figured he was forgiven then, sneaking a gloved hand over his preoccupied twin’s shoulder to snag a grape. It was swatted away, anyway. “Get your own.”

Jerome pouted cartoonishly and bopped his brother on the back of the head, knocking his new glasses down his nose.

“Ow.”

“Aw, come on,” Jerome dismissed. “You’re worse than Oscar, ya grouch!”

“People should be more understanding--”

“Oh no, here we go! He’s still goin’ on about the trash muppet!”

Martin giggled.

“The poor thing lives in a trash can! Does anybody help him?” Jeremiah argued, tone balanced so expertly between earnest and sarcastic that his true opinion was anyone’s guess. “Do they offer him any support? _No_ ; it’s all ‘Oh, that Oscar! He’s such a grouch!’”

“We settled this years ago; they’re teachin’ kids realism! No one helped _us_ , did they!? People don’t really give a crap about other people. They just lie an’ pretend to!” Jerome argued. “Look at us; our own family kicked us while we were down, then blamed us for endin’ up here!”

Martin glanced back at him speculatively, then turned back to watch Bert and Ernie.

“You killed people and I--” Jeremiah paused to cover both of Martin’s ears. The child patiently tolerated his handling, continuing to consume his grapes almost as if completely unaware. “I’m an escaped science experiment. I literally would not be alive today without Lenore’s or Ecco’s help!”

“What am I? Chopped liver?”

Jeremiah uncovered Martin’s ears, relaxing back into his seat and snagged another grape. “Oh, Jerome. You’re such a _grouch_!”

Jerome chuckled lightly, hooking an arm around his smartass brother’s neck and thoroughly scuffing up his neatly coiffed hair, then absconded with the entire bunch of grapes. Jeremiah’s brand new trench coat and hat were knocked off the back of the couch in thelr scuffle. Martin, caught by surprise, hooked himself over the back to catch them while Jeremiah held the boy up by grabbing a handful of his sweater and threw a pillow after his fleeing twin. He hit the side of Jerome’s head right on target, causing him to drop the fruit into the trash. Martin slid back into his seat to scowl over his shoulder at the disappearing Valeska.

Jerome wasn’t bothered. His brother seemed to be pretty good with kids; he’d sort things out.

* * *

 

“Wait,” Oswald stopped his friend at the basement door with a hand on his chest.

“Gettin’ pretty bossy, aren’t ya, Pengy?” Jerome remarked in a voice right on that thin line between casual and lethal. This got a fed-up huff from his birdlike companion.

“Don’t be so thick-headed! I’m your friend, Jerome. I am trying to look out for your best interests!” Penguin snapped. Jerome’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and he laughed, causing the smaller man’s lips to thin even more sourly.

“Aw, ain’t that cute?! You’re worried about _me_?” Jerome mocked. “I think I can handle one spunky blonde!” He let out a suggestive growl “ ‘Specially when she’s all tied up.”

Oswald looked towards the ceiling for a moment, asking his God for strength and persisted, flippantly. “You think that. You need to stop and consider what that woman is scheming instead of allowing her to lead you on by your--” Jerome caught Penguin’s downwardly gesturing hand in a vice grip and pulled him close. His expression, for once, was entirely unreadable, freezing him with fear. His eyes flitted over Oswald’s features, then, just like that, he returned to the Jerome that Oswald knew, smirking tauntingly.

“Aw, _Buddy_ ! Is Blondie makin’ ya jealous?” he purred, enjoying Oswald’s mortified sputtering. “Haha! _Aw_ , take it easy, Pal. You’re still Daddy’s favorite.” Jerome patted his cheek a bit too hard with the hand not bruising a ring around Oswald’s wrist and released him, pushing past.

“I am nearly twice your age!” Oswald bristled.

“Come on then! Ya know, if ya wanted to join the party, all ya had to do was ask. Drama Queen,” Jerome called airily over his shoulder. Oswald glared after him, but followed, anyway. He really was concerned, even if his impulsive ally seemed incapable of understanding.

“I must admit, I’m not often wrong about people. I predicted that you would kill predominantly out of impulse, at least in terms of appearances; you prefer spectacle over efficiency. You crave the adrenaline rush caused by violent altercations to the point of deriving pleasure from pain regardless of the source,” Ecco shared the broad strokes of her observations in regards to Jerome as the Penguin took up a position in the shadows behind the redhead’s seat. Ecco was bound to a decently comfortable, antique redwood desk chair padded with navy-and-white-striped silk. Her bindings had been matched to this color scheme, likely due to Jerome’s pathological flair for presentation. She eyed the mismatched cords trapping her wrists, adding, “You act more insane than you truly are, possibly a defense mechanism-- or a conscious tactic meant to encourage others to underestimate you.” She looked past the madman to meet Oswald’s eye. He didn’t take the bait; it was nothing that he hadn’t already gleaned for himself.

Jerome smirked and cocked his head as he leaned on one elbow against the side table placed directly to his left, bearing an assortment of knives. “You think I’m smart! I’m flattered.”

“Perhaps, you could try telling us something we don’t know,” Oswald gloated, eyeing the bound woman shrewdly from his place against the wall behind Jerome’s right shoulder. He could see that Ecco knew he was onto her game as much as she recognized that Jerome wasn’t; he had been right to take precautions.

“Given your predilections,” Ecco continued explaining to Jerome, too accommodating for an individual with her apparent skillset. “I had anticipated that you would favor more theatrical weaponry as well: a large intimidating knife, or a shotgun, or even that clunky handgun you favored during the break in. I had assumed that it was your smallest weapon of choice.”

“Ah,” Jerome accepted. “Yeah, well. Ya weren’t wrong. It was a coincidence-- kinda mood-related.” He gave a dismissive wave. “You know how it is. I confiscated it earlier; my brother was trying to manipulate his way toward a razor blade a few hours before you showed up; I intercepted it. Now usually, I woulda’ just shot ya’ dead when you admitted what ya’ did, but I figured since I had it, I might as well enjoy it.” He laughed at his own miscalculation. “That backfired, didn’t it? Ah, well.”

Ecco narrowed her eyes at him, then her gaze wandered into the middle distance, turning inward as she processed the news. Without warning, a grin spread over her face and she cracked up as if she’d just heard a particularly funny joke. Jerome frowned and Penguin stood from his lean against the wall, sensing a shift in the power dynamic.

“Not that I’m complainin’ but what’re you laughing about?” Jerome questioned, smiling regardless of his uncertainty. Oswald in contrast, felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

“Coincidence,” Ecco responded as if the word itself were worthy of mockery. “A coincidence! Oh, that clever boy!”

Jerome frowned and cast a look back at Oswald, acknowledging his apprehension this time.

“You think that Mr. Valeska planned for this?” Oswald inferred. This was not good.

“Xander knew that I would attempt to leave town after the alert from my employer. He wanted us together, but he had to prevent us from killing each other first.”

“How d’ya figure?” Jerome questioned, unconvinced.

“Lenore used to have these sayings that she would repeat, kind of life lessons I guess. Because of Xander’s most frequent hobby, one of her favorites got changed into a bit of an injoke by the guards. It got to be a popular saying around town.”

Oswald squinted penetratingly at the too-amused mercenary.

“Coincidence is Jack’s way of remaining anonymous,” Ecco clarified, smiling at the memory. “He was scary smart for his age. He went from mazes, to Rube-Goldberg machines, to creating chain reactions: the more complicated, the better. Oh! Xander was Jack when--”

“Yes! We gathered that,” Oswald cut off her unnecessary clarification.

Jerome was frowning down at the Persian rug, his ever jocular facade slipping. Penguin didn’t need to ask to know what was going on in his friend’s head. Although he had been distracted before, Jerome was being struck in full force by the reality that he’d been tricked. He looked up to see a knowing look in Ecco’s eyes and his mask was gone.

“Do you know where Xander is?" she posed. "Right now?”

Jerome showed his teeth, not even bothering to forge a smile, almost seeming scared as he surged up the stairs like a man possessed.

Oswald stalked forward to stand over the mercenary, grabbing her chin in a bruising grip and forcing her to look up at him. The devious little shrew was still smirking.

“Tell me what you've done!”

“Who, me?” Ecco made an exaggeratedly charitable face at him. “I guess I was the distraction.” She laughed in his face. “Now you’re gonna _need_ me!”

* * *

 

Jerome darted over to Martin still seated on the couch where he’d last seen Jeremiah, only now the boy was alone. Jeremiah’s jacket was no longer draped over the backrest, replaced by Jerome’s tan blazer in the exact same position. Penguin’s rarely used bowler hat was where Jeremiah’s black-banded, white fedora should’ve been.

“Where is he?” Jerome demanded, he could feel a familiar sensation of something missing but wasn’t ready to admit to it, nor the sickening déjà vu.

Martin frowned at him in confusion. --Who?--

“My brother! You were sittin’ with him when I passed by here. I stole your grapes, remember?” This couldn’t be happening, not again!

Martin shook his head, only looking more perplexed. He held up his bowl.

Jerome scowled at it and backtracked to check the waste bin. “ _Cherries_? He can’t eat...”

\--You want to watch with me some more?--

Jerome gritted his teeth and charged upstairs to check Jeremiah’s bedroom, too distracted by the mystery to notice the child smirking after him.

Jeremiah’s room was empty. The window, which was supposed to be nailed shut was wide open and a playing card was taped to the pane. It was Jerome’s own calling card: the Joker. He stomped over and tore the card off the glass to see a short note scrawled on the back in purple sharpie: “There are two in every deck,” signed with a hand-drawn, laughing emoticon.

Jerome let out a furious, wordless roar, shaking with emotion: Not. Again.


	9. Episode Seven: Crossroad Slims

 

 _...“I don’t want to do this anymore.”_ Xander’s timid, child-self fretted on the session record while Bruce and Alfred sat on either side of the oak desk in Bruce’s study, listening.

 _“‘It’s alright, Jack, no need to be shy. We’re just talking. No, not with Daniel. You’re_ **_talking_ ** _to me right now.”_ Alfred’s brow creased thoughtfully at the way the scientist stressed the word as Dr. Totem continued what was beginning to sound more and more like a veiled interrogation, _“Why do you find talking to be so difficult? Is it something that happened when you were with your birth parents? I need you to use your voice for the recorder to work; you know that.”_

_“You don’t like me.”_

_“Why would you say that?”_

_“Nobody likes me. I don’t belong,” young Xander’s voice threatened to fade to nothing in his distress._

_“I know you’re upset, Jack, but you need to understand: sometimes when things get difficult it can make us feel lost when we’re not. You might fear that you don’t fit in, but it’s only your fear. Today I’d like to see if we can uncover what is causing these feelings. Your parents are very concerned. They say that you’ve been having night terrors? Let’s talk about that,” Dr. Totem redirected._

_“That’s not me.”_

_“It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. You’ve started screaming and clawing in your sleep. I’m just trying to understand what happened--”_

_“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.”_

_“You’re not in any trouble. Harleen’s fine. She doesn’t blame you, Jack. We just want you to feel better. Why don’t you tell us about your nightmare? What was it you thought you were fighting off last night?”_

_“You’re not listening. I told you it wasn’t me. I want to go home!”_

_“Jack. You’re safe here. Just tell us what you saw and I promise you’ll feel better.”_

_“No. I don’t like this. I want to go home now, please. Danny, take me home!”_

_“See what you’ve done?”_ _the Doctor grumbled accusingly. “Jack, calm down._ ** _No_** _, you need to stay in the chair--_ ** _Jack_** _!”_

_“Hey!” Daniel’s voice objected. There was a loud clatter followed by sounds of Jack struggling and whining. The recording ended._

“Well, that was bloody awful,” Alfred diagnosed, straightening in his seat opposite Bruce to run a hand over his face. “How many of these did you find?”

“36 were labeled ‘Jack.’ There were less of his than any of the other subjects,” Bruce answered, still turning over everything they’d heard in his mind. “Xander’s sessions started much later than any of the others.”

“Small mercies, I guess…” Alfred remarked. “How old was he in that? If they’d put one of those things in his head by then…”

Bruce glanced down at the numeric date marked on the cassette case to confirm before answering. “Nine years old. He’s the youngest test subject I know of so far.”

“Consenting adults,” Alfred said with disdain. “That’s what they were all supposed to be, according to Miss Haddock’s reporting.”

“Xander warned me about the kind of people we were dealing with,” Bruce responded. The memory of the Bridge recording he’d left behind out of disgust came back to haunt him, unbidden. He wondered if he should have saved it as evidence, but at the same time didn’t want to inflict it on his friends. “They’ve _killed_ children.”

Alfred studied his young master’s haunted expression. “I know what they did to Limetown. Is there something more that you aren’t telling me Bruce?”

“There was another tape.” Bruce swallowed, determined to leave it at that, looking up to meet his butler and father figure’s eyes with an eloquent look. “You don’t want to know.”

* * *

 

“Okay, Jim, turns out you were right about Dr. Wilde’s bodyguard,” Harvey began, dropping into his preferred seat in the Police Captain’s office. “And in discovering that, I’d like to think that I have been proven equally right about the other Valeska.”

Jim scowled and decided to hear his partner out before remarking on his obvious prejudice. “What’ve you found?”

“Her real name is Harleen Quinzel. She was born Harleen Seaborn but it was changed when she was adopted.”

“Just like Xander,” Jim noted.

“Yeah, sure. Quinzel graduated with top marks from GCU, got herself a PhD in Psychology and an MD, just like she told ya’, but after that she just disappeared. All records about her stopped about ten years ago. ‘Looks like she went off the grid the day after she received her final degree-- which is funny because that is exactly the same time that Xander Wilde suddenly becomes a thing.”

“What are you saying?” Jim questioned, pulling the file folder Harvey dropped on his desk around to skim through it himself.

“I’m saying that Xander Wilde was nothing but a name typed up on a batch of weirdly fresh-looking adoption papers until ten years ago. Then all of a sudden he’s got a trust fund of 11 mill, owns three properties in Gotham, Hong Kong, and friggin’ Sydney, Australia, of all places! This guy has records stating that he’s graduated from a very prestigious boarding school that he never attended. From what I can tell, this guy never even attended any college courses  in person -- which figures, since for the dates on his degrees to make any sense, he’d have to have earned at least two of them while he was still supposedly in boarding school. This kid was a ghost until he randomly surfaced at GCU to earn his final Doctorate -- guy’s got three by the way-- in time to be hired by Wayne Industries. Oh, and you’ll never guess what his final thesis was about.”

“What was it?” Jim inquired warily.

“The malleability of the human brain.”

“That doesn’t sound like an engineering topic,” Jim said with a frown.

“Biochemistry,” Harvey provided, as if this somehow proved all his suspicions about the young engineer to be true.

“And the others?’ Jim tested, unconvinced.

“Structural Engineering and Molecular Physics.”

“Well, at least he used some of it,” Jim remarked with a tight smile. “None of this is incriminating, Harv. We already knew the guy was a genius and a shut-in. If anything, this only supports his story. It’s Quinzel I’m worried about. There’s more to her presence here than she’s telling. We need to focus on that to understand her involvement in Jeremiah’s kidnapping.”

“You’re still calling it a kidnapping,” Harvey lamented. “I’m telling you, Jimbo, I can smell crazy all over him.”

“I still think it’s a kidnapping, Harvey. I get why he puts you off, but I’m telling you: I interacted with Jeremiah more than you did. The poor guy was a nervous wreck. He might’ve been neurotic, but he was nothing like his twin.”

* * *

 

Bruce and Selina were walking together down a bustling city street. Selina was venting about Barbara’s latest megalomania. According to her, the wannabe-Queen of Gotham’s Underworld was demanding that she prove her loyalty after her “acts of betrayal.” Barbara saw the sensible choices of Selina’s that had facilitated Bruce’s saving the other woman’s ass as acts of profound disrespect, but was “going easy on her in light of their friendship.” Bruce shoved his hands into his coat pockets and half-absorbed his not-girlfriend’s rant while she looked out into the street in search of an opening for them to cross. They passed a tall, slender man in a white, black-accented trench coat and matching fedora -- likely bespoke, judging by the ensemble’s uniqueness -- leaning against the brick wall of an apartment building having a smoke. They made it a few paces past him before Bruce stopped in his tracks. His eyes fluttered shut to aid in identifying the uniquely familiar combination of scents: a mixture of India ink, juniper and…

“Crossroad slims,” Bruce finished the thought aloud as it suddenly clicked. They weren’t a popular brand in Gotham. According to Xander, Ecco had needed to put in a special order to acquire them with any regularity.

“What?” Selina turned around, realizing that Bruce was no longer beside her. He had already begun to double back towards the mysterious figure.

The man straightened from his casual lean and met Bruce’s eye with a striking, silvery-eyed stare before pushing his violet, wire-framed glasses back up his nose. Bruce’s breath caught in his throat; he watched his dead friend turn into an alley, casually striding out of sight. Bruce chased after the ghost faster than his brain could process the utter strangeness of what was happening.

“Wha-- Where are you going?”

Bruce barely acknowledged Selina’s confusion. He was too focused on trying to catch up with the quick stride of his spectral quarry. The ghost lazily stretched one arm out at his side, letting a half-finished cigarette slip from his blue-leather gloved fingers. Xander’s phantom turned sharply to the left and strode behind a pile of empty crates as if to walk straight through the wall.

“No wait!” Bruce ran to catch up, but it was too late. When he reached the other end of the alley it was empty, as if no one had been there other than him… except. There was a grimy iron door in the exact spot where Bruce had seen his friend striding so confidently, camouflaged perfectly by the crates. It looked rusted shut. “Xander!” Bruce threw himself at it and tugged at the basic pull handle. It felt jammed into place. He pounded on the rough metal. “Xander! Open the door!”

“Bruce? Hey! Calm down!” Selina caught his shoulder and tugged him around to face her. He tried to shrug her off but she only reaffirmed her grip. “Bruce! What are you doing?”

“I saw him, Selina! He was right here. He must’ve left through this door!” Bruce explained, smacking the metal barrier again. “Xander!”

“Hey,” Selina let go of his shoulder only to put an arm out over his chest and herd him away from the aged portal. “You mean this door that hasn’t opened in, like, a bajillion years?”

“I’ll admit that it may appear far-fetched, but I know what I saw. Xander was here! I was right behind him! Where else could he have gone?”

Selina’s lips stretched in a sad, sympathetic smile. “You know where he is. I’m sorry Bruce, but Jerome killed him on live TV. You were there, remember?”

“He-- I know that but--” Bruce caught himself and paused for a few seconds to regroup. “I realize how this must sound. I know that he died, but I was so sure-- It even _smelled_ like…” He narrowed his eyes, turning on the spot to search the area where he’d seen the apparent ghost cast away his unfinished cigarette. “I know I didn’t imagine it.”

“Listen, that implant--”

Bruce brushed past Selina on the way towards his prize.

“What are you doing?”

“Here! I knew I didn’t imagine it! Crossroad Slims, it’s his brand. I saw him drop it when he turned to leave, and it’s still lit!” Bruce held it out to her proudly. “Do you believe me now?”

“And does he always wear burgundy lipstick, too?” Selina held up the filter to show the deep red stains.

“Not always,” Bruce responded as if there were nothing unusual about it at all. It felt normal to him, perhaps due to the years of exposure to the stubbornly gender neutral L.M. He supposed it could also be the implant. Either way, Selina arched her brows at his casual affirmation, then stared hard at the smoking piece of evidence for an extended interval.

“We should go.” She grabbed Bruce’s arm, beginning to pull him back the way they’d come.

“What? No. If Xander somehow survived, I need to see him. He must be in terrible danger! Jerome--”

“You said you saw Jerome slit his throat, right?” Selina interjected, her expression deadly serious.

Bruce frowned, understanding where she might be going with this. “I did…”

“So he survived getting his throat slit -- unlikely, but okay it's Gotham: stranger things have happened.” Selina gestured to the dropped cigarette. “How’s he smoking?”

“You may have a point,” Bruce admitted, still wanting to run back down the alley anyway.

“I _do_ have a point. Here’s another one: maybe your buddy’s evil twin knows about his smoking habit. Maybe he covered his scars knowing that you’d be predisposed to accept all the heavy makeup, and maybe -- just a wild guess -- that psycho is using Xander’s memory to mess with you,” Selina elaborated, sounding more and more surly. “So, can we please get out of here?!” Bruce closed his eyes, wincing in response to her accidental pun.

“Please, don’t say ‘wild guess’.” Regardless of his lack of further resistance, Selina still all-but-dragged him back to his car and didn’t fully relax until there were a few blocks between them and Bruce’s ghost sighting.

* * *

 

“You need me.” Ecco persisted, watching her captor stalk back and forth in front of her like a caged tiger, stubborn and feral. “We’ve both been well trained by Lenore in how to disappear without a trace and I am the only person in the world other than your brother who knows where he’s stashed everything he needs to do it.”

Jerome stopped pacing, scowled at her, and continued pacing, twisting an unreasonably large knife in his hand in an endless cycle. She’d known that he was going to be difficult--he was a Valeska after all-- but Ecco also knew that she needed him, too, if she ever wanted to catch up with her charge.

“Tell me what you know, an’ maybe I won’t kill ya.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Ecco smirked. “I’m only alive right now because deep down, you know that I’m telling the truth. If you truly care about Jeremiah’s wellbeing at all, you will let me help.”

Jerome turned on her so fast he was practically a blur. Then the tip of his knife was pressed to her throat, drawing a fat droplet of blood to trickle down her skin. “Tell me where he is!”

“I don’t know, yet,” Ecco told him evenly. “But we have another day left to pick up the trail before he’s gone.” She tilted her head, looking up at him through her thick eyelashes. “Please, Punkin’, won’t you give me one day.”

Jerome snorted, straightening to toss the knife to himself in a casually impressive twirl that he probably learned in his time at the circus. “Yeah. You’re gonna try to run.”

“I’m not going anywhere without our brother,” Ecco said sharply. Jerome made a face.

“Don’t start actin’ like we’re related.”

“ _That’s_ where you draw the line.”

“Shuddup,” Jerome bent over her ominously, then pressed his knife to the ropes binding one of her wrists. Unfortunately, there was a loud slam from upstairs that drew his attention with the rope only halfway cut through. He scampered upwards towards the prospect of chaos.

“Hey! Jerome! You didn’t--” Ecco rocked angrily against her chairback and began trying to work the torn rope loose on her own.

* * *

 

He found them in the lounge. Butch had the Penguin by the throat and was holding him up so that his toes were scrabbling for purchase on the polished wood flooring. Oswald’s eyes were wide and he looked like he’d be talking fast if he had the oxygen.

“You promised that you’d get me fixed. You got nothin’-- just empty promises and some pact with the ginger freak!” the albino giant accused, eyes wide and murderous. Jerome decided that was his cue to saunter in and drop into a lounge on the nearby couch.

“My ears are burning!” he sing-songed perching his chin on his crossed arms over the back of the couch. Butch’s head jerked to the side to stare him down, eyeing the knife hanging in a loose grip from the “ginger freak’s” right hand. Penguin slapped uselessly at his attacker’s arm. Jerome chuckled.

Butch sneered dissmisively. “This doesn’t involve you.” Oswald girgled and Butch finally lowered him enough to stand of his own power. “What!”

The Penguin choked and sputtered but spoke as quickly as he could. “I have not lied to you! I will admit, we have experienced some drawbacks.”

Butch glared and his grip began to tighten again.

“But that is all they are! You have seen me beaten, and you have seen me brainwashed. This is _nothing_ ! If you do not have the patience to carry out this plan that is _not_ my failure, but your shortsightedness,” Penguin spat acidly. “I will handle Edward.”

“Weren’t you listening? You got no deal with the Riddler,” Butch disbelieved.

Oswald smiled up at him feverishly, raising a finger. “I have no deal with the Riddler... yet.”

Jerome narrowed his eyes, silently weighing the words of their last exchange. He didn’t voice his thoughts or drop the manic mask he bore. In the secrecy of his mind he was far from carefree.

* * *

 

Bruce tried to humor Selina for as long as necessary. She had valid grounds for concern. He knew that he should listen to her. This was exactly the kind of trick that Jerome would pull in order to disorient him before moving in for the kill. Jerome had been obsessed with Bruce ever since his death at age 18 in Galavan’s scheme to kidnap the Wayne heir. All that line of thinking brought, however, was a lingering doubt at the back of Bruce’s mind: _Jerome_ came back. Why not Xander, too? It had to be a trick. Less than half an hour had passed after Selina left the Manor to meet with Barbara, when Bruce gave in to impulse and slid into the driver’s seat of his Mustang.

It just didn’t fit. What he’d seen in that alley wasn’t an impersonation; if that was all it was, Jerome wouldn’t dye his hair dark as both twins were redheads. Xander was fairer skinned due to so many years spent underground, but in the alley he’d been almost paper-white. Wouldn’t the nearly translucent pallor make it harder to hide the raised lines of Jerome’s scars?

Bruce drove straight to the GCPD and parked out front. He saw one of the scruffy robbers native to Selina’s neck of the woods giving the expensive car a calculating look. They locked eyes as Bruce pointed the key fob over his shoulder, activating the car’s custom security system as he passed. The older man -- Sonny, if Bruce remembered correctly-- gave him the same nasty smirk that he had about a year ago right before he and his buddies jumped the rich boy visiting their turf. Bruce shifted his focus to his destination, stoic. Behind him Sonny sidled up to the car, taking a look around as he pulled a crowbar out of his jacket. Bruce stepped through the doors and paused to listen.

“Ahhhz-zzsst!” Sonny’s pry bar jammed into the housing of the window completed the car’s dormant electrical circuit, giving him a painful shock. Bruce continued onwards, feeling slightly philosophical; that feature had been L.M.’s idea. A few of the police milling around the bullpen looked over at him with mild curiosity as he entered. Other than that, his presence was largely overlooked until he reached the door to the Captain’s office.

“Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce turned to see Lucius Fox at the top of the stairs to his right.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fox.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, Bruce, what are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with Captain Gordon. I have important information related to the Valeska Case that I believe he will want to hear,” Bruce answered honestly and noticed an odd tightness sneak into his associate’s expression.

“The Valeska Case.”

“Yes.” Bruce watched for more tells that would explain the sudden change in Mr. Fox’s countenance, but only managed to discern that something was making him uncomfortable.

“Well, I was just about to drop off a report at his desk. I’ll let him know that you’re here to see him,” Lucius walked past only to pause with his hand on the doorknob. “I should warn you, he’s very busy. The Riddler has been carrying out a rash of bank robberies, among other things. The Captain’s time is limited. Maybe you should talk to Harvey, and he can follow up with Jim when they get the chance.” Behind Bruce, the aforementioned Detective shifted in his seat to look at them.

“I can wait,” Bruce patiently persisted. Lucius was definitely being evasive. He simply didn’t know why yet.

“Right,” Lucius ducked into Jim’s office and Bruce waited outside, watching their silhouettes converse through the slatted shades. It appeared that his unexpected visit was making both men uncomfortable. They were arguing for a moment, then the Captain relented, giving a curt nod of permission. Lucius put his report down on the desk, only to begin gathering the open files on the Captain’s desk and-- With a bitter feeling in his chest, Bruce pushed into the room. Jim hastily slapped shut the last open folder, trying to shove the papers back in before Bruce could see. He did not succeed. A muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitched, belying his forced stoicism.

“You _knew_.”

“Bruce…” Jim began but Bruce didn’t care. He had vouched for Jim. He had talked Xander into trusting him when Xander was right all along.

“You knew that Xander was kidnapped all this time and you lied to me,” Bruce observed, quietly furious.

Jim looked to Lucius. “Could you give us a moment?”

“Oh yeah.” The odd man out made his escape, but not before Bruce managed to snatch the top folder off of the pile in his hands.

“That’s evidence,” Jim disapproved. The secret vigilante ignored it, opening the lab report. “You need to learn to listen,” the Captain grumbled without actually making any effort to stop him.

“You’ve known since Jerome’s performance,” Bruce continued, skimming through the forensics report from the day of the hostage standoff, memorizing the data. “And instead of mounting a rescue you’re investigating _him_.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Jim growled out unhappily, obviously aware that he wouldn’t be believed. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“How exactly is this deception protecting me? My best friend has been kidnapped and instead of doing anything to help him, you’re covering it up!” Bruce snapped, his practiced control finally giving way.

“You knew the guy for two days,” Jim dissented. “And it’s becoming clear that your friend had a lot of secrets--”

“I’ve known Xander for years,” Bruce corrected, keeping his eyes glued to the report in his hands to maintain the last of his control. “And I was well aware of his need for secrecy. He had his reasons.”

“You never said anything about knowing him…” the Detective considered, having the nerve to be irritated. “Look Bruce, if you know something about what’s going on, you need to tell me. I don’t know what Jerome’s plan is but you know how dangerous he is--”

“Have you even attempted to get Xander back?” Bruce intercepted, finally looking up from the file.

“It’s too much of a risk. If we act now, we’ll show our hand. Right now Valeska has no idea that we’re onto him.”

“I wonder, Captain Gordon, if you would be so comfortable leaving a hostage this long in Jerome’s clutches if the two didn’t happen to look alike.” Bruce spoke in a formal tone now as if addressing a complete stranger. “You would never have left me to Jerome’s mercy for this long.”

“It’s not that simple.” Jim looked wretched; he could likely tell that he was losing ground. He’d watched Bruce grow up, after all. “This isn’t the same.”

“I see that now,” Bruce replied, cool as the Gotham night. He set the folder down neatly in order on the Detective’s desk.

“Listen, I know you’re angry with me,” Jim tried to reason. “That shouldn’t stop you from sharing any information you have that could help me solve this case. Jerome Valeska still has your friend and I’m the one who’s going to stop him.”

“I came here to tell you that I believe Xander’s still alive. It’s clear to me now that I have nothing to tell you that you don’t already know.” Bruce took his leave with a simple. “Goodbye, Captain,” that was much more polite than he really felt like being.

“Wait. How did you--”

Bruce shut the door behind him cutting short Jim’s last question.

He had spotted Jeremiah in the narrows, dangerously close to the border with the Penguin’s reclaimed territory. They wouldn’t have long to beat Jerome and his allies to the punch and once again he’d made a mistake. Why did Xander trust him, again? Bruce had sneaked into town and almost spilled the truth to the wrong person, against both his friends’ better judgment. Selina was going to be pissed.

* * *

 

Jeremiah stepped out through the rusted metal door that Frank --a homeless alcoholic he’d chosen at random for this little interlude-- was holding open for him. Jeremiah paused to hand over the rest of his payment: the remainder of the cash he had on him when he escaped.

“You should have enough money to get yourself a hotel room now-- And a decent meal,” with that Jeremiah turned and left. He kept his face downturned and his senses primed for threats, turning into the rundown, unpopulated bar at the next street corner.

“Evening, Sir. What’ll it be?”

“Two brandies, please,” Jeremiah replied quietly, still keeping his face in shadow as he sat at the far end of the bar with his back to the terracotta wall. After a few minutes, a petite, feminine figure slinked in through the door. The leather clad woman had a coiled whip hooked to her belt and a lion’s mane of golden brown curls. She ran a discerning gaze over her surroundings before taking him in with a wry quirk of her lips and striding over to claim the stool next to his. Jeremiah flicked his gaze away to watch the requested drinks being poured into two visibly smudged glasses from a bottle with a woman wielding a broom over a spiky black cat on the label.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at hiding,” his pursuer remarked, instead of any greeting or attempt at introduction. The barkeep set their drinks in front of Jeremiah and he slid one over to his pursuer. “Right.” She gave the barkeep a little time to wander off to a safe distance, then continued, “You knew that I was watching you from the rooftop this whole time. I guess you probably already know who I am, too, huh?” Though she was unsettled by the idea, you’d never know from looking at her.

“Why are you following me, Selina.” Jeremiah actually hadn’t been certain until that moment.

“How are you still alive, _Xander_?”

“Disappointed, are we?”

“Could be. I haven’t decided yet,” Selina returned, a warning implied in her measured cadence. He might be able to read her like a book; that wouldn’t stop her from kicking his ass.

_Anger. Distrust. Loyalty towards Bruce._

“I didn’t know about Jerome’s plan to kidnap me until I woke up covered in fake blood at the Penguin’s mansion. By then there was little to be done but wait for an opening.”

“You could have at least tried to let Bruce know that you were alive,” Selina pointed out. She was withholding her final judgment until he was finished explaining himself, a fact for which Jeremiah was very thankful.

“Two problems. The first: until recently, I didn’t think that it worked that way.” He took a sip of his-- he wasn’t willing to call that brandy-- and set it back on the bar with a plastic clack. “Second: even if I had known, I could not be certain that he wouldn’t try to find me himself. We both know Bruce; the man has a rather monumental savior complex.”

Selina tilted her head in agreement, took a drink of her “brandy” and winced. “This is trash.”

“You’re paying,” Jeremiah informed her, displaying a cheery, closed-lipped smile in response to her stern look and patted himself down, presenting his empty hands. “The dead are often penniless.”

 _Exasperation_.

“You blew the last of your cash on Frank the Tank,” Selina translated, unamused. “What the Hell did you even need _him_ for anyway?”

“I don’t like doorknobs.”

Selina laughed.

“Also, that rusty old door no longer had a working lock and I was feeling ambivalent about allowing Bruce to follow me in,” Jeremiah finished his honest answer and Selina’s amusement tapered off.

“You’re serious.” She looked him over more closely. “How-- Wait you’re, what, twenty?”

“One…” Jeremiah tacked on, casting a meaningful glance towards the surly Italian woman scrubbing a dark stain off the other end of the counter.

Selina rolled her eyes at his naiveté. “How can you have survived this long without being able to open doors for yourself?”

“I understand the concept. I simply don’t-- I designed my bunker to be fully automated. The doors open with a palm print or a passcode,” Jeremiah shrugged unselfconsciously. “Before that I had my siblings.”

Selina turned forward to stare down at the sticky, red bar top. _Incredulous. Bemused. Begrudging._ He wasn’t even her problem; on that, they agreed. Jeremiah caught a wordless, mostly formless impression that implied bleak predictions regarding his survival.

“There’s no need to be so cynical.”

“Stay out of my head,” Selina responded firmly, stood and knocked back the rest of her drink in one large gulp, slapping a ten dollar bill down on the counter. “Time to split.” The thief pinned her empathic company with a stare that left no room for dissent. “You’re coming with me.”

Jeremiah hesitated, eyeing his unfinished swill, then stood and followed, having to speed his pace to slip through the closing door behind her. Selina walked back over to him after he’d made it to the street and snatched his fedora off his head.

“And lose the hat. You look like a cartoon character.”

“This look is a classic.”

Selina snorted. “Sure. You’re the private dick and the _femme fatale_ all in one.”

Jeremiah beamed at her, taking it as a complement rather than the criticism she’d intended. “Why, thank you.” Gliding by to reclaim his hat, he enthused, “You really nailed me with that one.”

* * *

 

Bruce stormed in from the garage, his rage still boiling over from his meeting with Jim. He stomped through the darkened hall on the shortest route towards his room, distantly aware of the sound of voices up ahead. He couldn’t believe Captain Gordon’s arrogance. He had been lying to Bruce for a week. He’d left him in the dark, denying him the chance to help save his friend. Bruce wasn’t naïve; he knew that law enforcement in Gotham City tended to operate on a double standard based on power and social status (two things Xander didn’t possess). That didn’t make it any easier to witness someone he’d trusted since childhood inflicting that injustice on his friend-- maybe even at the cost of Xander’s _life--_ without a hint of remorse. Too much time had already been wasted. A week left alone at Jerome’s mercy! Bruce snarled and punched the wall, cracking the polished wood paneling and probably a couple bones in his hand.

The voices he’d been hearing from the kitchen went silent, finally drawing his notice by way of their unexpected absence.

“He’s already furious,” a heart-stoppingly familiar voice observed, soft and unmistakable. It wasn’t in his head. Bruce practically flew around the corner, only to freeze in the doorway in a combination of shock and elation. Xander stared back at him. He still looked paler than Bruce remembered and his hair had been dyed dark green, almost black. He needlessly straightened his glasses the way he did when he was feeling anxious, and opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it again. Selina let out an impatient huff.

“Hey Bruce, look who’s not dead,” she held out her arms in a presentational gesture.

“Xander,” Bruce muttered blankly. His reclusive friend mistook this as a bad sign and stood from his stool at the kitchen island, raising his hands in placation.

“Now before you hit me, I would like a chance to explain--”

Bruce marched forward and pulled him into a bear hug. It was Xander’s turn to freeze up, his arms raised awkwardly at his sides.

“You’re alright,” Bruce murmured, grateful. His friend belatedly caught up with what was happening and relaxed, resting a hand on his back. Bruce released him within arm’s reach to look him over.

“I know you must want an explanation. I -- I swear I had no idea. It was all in Jerome’s plan-- ridiculous as that may sound,” Xander rambled, once again adjusting his already even glasses. “It seems he wants to keep me rather than kill me outright. He’s decided that I belong to him.”

“How did you escape?” Bruce asked, half-listening. He prefered to worry about how he was going to deal with Jerome after he was sure that Xander really was okay.

“I jumped out a window,” Jeremiah winced. “I’ve made a miscalculation and now Jerome has Ecco.” Behind him, Selina blew out a heartfelt sigh, slumping against the kitchen island in disappointment.

“That’s it. I need dinner.”


	10. Episode Eight: Power Outage

 

 

 

Jerome clomped in through the mud room and kicked off his boots, literally. One of them ended up smashing its way back outside through the thin glass of the window to his left. He and Ecco watched it disappear over the edge, then Ecco let out a small, musical laugh that quickly proved to be infectious.

“Whoops!” Jerome joked, laughing at his own antics. They fell silent again. It was strangely pleasant in a way that Jerome rarely found silence to be. They hadn’t even made any headway in their search yet, but he was having a good time with his captive-turned-cohort.

“I’ll need to make a few calls…” Ecco said, returning to business as they passed into the house proper. 

“There’s a phone in the study upstairs.” Jerome gestured broadly at the ceiling. There were voices coming from the lounge up ahead, including one that he didn’t recognize. He paused to listen, eyes narrowing. “Up that flight of stairs on our right, third door on your left.”

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Ecco inferred and left to make her phone calls.

“Yeah…” Jerome muttered, distracted, and crept closer to the source of his preoccupation, peering in through the cracked open door. A man he didn’t know was standing before Oswald and Butch’s seats by the fireplace with his back to the door. He was wearing a fancy, emerald green suit and a black bowler hat and Jerome knew instantly --based on Oswald’s stories-- exactly whose back he was looking at. So, he stayed to listen.

“And you came to me…” Oswald prompted sarcastically.

“Because that love struck _moron_ , Ed, is floating down a river of dopamine, deep within the primitive rewards circuit of my brain and I need you to help me drown him. For good!” Edward Nygma sneered bitterly, or-- What was it that he wanted people to call him now? Meh, Jerome didn’t care. The guy was a looney tune.

“Did you bring the half-share of profits that we asked for?” Oswald inquired, always keeping his eyes on his prize. That was pretty key to Pengy’s M.O. The ever present “but what can you do for me?” clause that underlined his every interaction thanks in no small part to this… Riddler! That was it; _lame_.

“That money’s gone,” the silk-suited dope responded as if that wouldn’t be a total deal-breaker. Jerome almost snickered, covering his mouth with one gloved hand. 

Oswald looked like he might leap to his feet and choke the guy out. 

“It was distributed among the riff raff of the narrows.” Nygma held up a finger. “But, those five banks were only the first stage of a _very_ sophisticated plan and the _coup de grâce_ ”--with this he posed like a flamenco dancer-- “is tonight. I can cut you in.”

Oswald’s face lit up. He looked overjoyed, which was disappointing. Jerome thought the choking option would be a lot more fun.

“I knew you were scheming something!” Oswald stood and laughed, gesticulating animatedly. “That’s why we were going to rob you afterwards.”

Nygma faked a laugh in return. He was a bad actor.

“But I prefer this way,” Oswald said, turning to face the albino rising from his own fireside chair. 

Jerome retreated to join Ecco upstairs. He figured he’d gotten the gist. He would check back with Oswald later, not that this was any of his business. Jerome didn’t like the pretentious bank robber much; the guy seemed to him like an exaggerated summary of everything about his little brother that annoyed him. He had all the vanity and arrogance with none of Jere’s offbeat charm. He wasn’t even the least bit funny! Not that it was any of Jerome’s business.

* * *

 

Bruce knew he needed to stop staring. It was a small miracle that no one had called him out on it yet, Xander himself most of all. But he was _here_ , and Bruce couldn’t quite believe it yet.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try the pasta, Dr. Wilde?” Alfred inquired after the young man’s dinner, yet again, this time directly. Xander looked up at him over the rim of his violet-framed glasses then carefully speared another forkful of roast vegetables.

“This is fine, thank you,” he quietly replied, pushing a cherry tomato out of the pile as if silently shooing it away from the other food before spearing a chunk of parsnip.

“There’s plenty more left. I’m sure you’d enjoy something other than vegetables and bread.”

Bruce shot Alfred a look, then speculatively observed as Xander prodded a piece of red pepper as if it were an alien artifact, only to take a bite of garlic bread instead.

Selina let the end of her fork drop onto her plate with a clink and breathed out a scoff.

“You’re _really_ OCD, huh?” she spoke with impunity, undaunted by how her observation might be taken.

“Selina?” Bruce queried, not sure whether her characteristic bluntness was an asset or not in this case.

“Look at his plate. All the tomatoes and peppers are getting quarantined. So, either your buddy’s, like, five years old or…” she made an illustrative gesture in place of an end to her sentence. “You know he can’t touch doorknobs either? He actually blew all his cash hiring a guy to open doors for him first thing after his escape,” Selina elaborated, leaning back in her seat and smirking at the man in question.

“You care an awful lot about my money, don’t you?” Xander retorted smoothly.

“What’s your rule this time? No fruit with your vegetables? Or is it that they’re nightshades?” Selina challenged, causing Bruce’s eyebrows to draw together in disapproval as their exchange grew in contention. 

“My, my, someone sure knows her plants,” Xander responded, needlessly adjusting the cuffs of his vivid magenta shirt rather than meet her gaze, cold and aloof.

Selina scoffed.

“I’m not crazy.” His denial was stated just a little too carefully to sound unbothered.

“Go ahead.” Selina shoved the bowl of spaghetti bolognese forwards, causing Xander to flinch, his intense stare rising to meet the intruding entrée. “Prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” his tone was dismissive, his delivery brisk.

“You can’t do it,” Selina discerned with a wry quirk of her lips, shaking her head.

“It’s red,” Bruce blurted out, then made a face as if wondering himself why he’d said it. Xander’s eyes closed in a pained expression, lamenting Bruce’s unintentional betrayal.

“Alright. That’s quite enough of that,” Alfred intervened. “I’ll not have any wars started over my cooking. Though, I will ask that from now on you make any unique requirements known to me beforehand,” he chided a bewildered Bruce.

Xander sent Selina a withering look across the table, then plastered on a smile for the Butler’s sake. “Thank you, Alfred, the oversight was mine.”

“Yes, well, no need to apologize,” Alfred reassured him. “After spending a whole week locked up with that nightmare of a brother you’ve got, I wouldn’t expect you to be focused on little things.”

Xander looked down at his plate, thinking something over that he seemed hesitant to voice.

“I know that I told you this before, but you will be safe here with us,” Bruce assured him, not wanting to overburden his already sensitive friend. “We don’t have to discuss what Jerome did until you’re sure that you’re ready.”

“Jerome didn’t do anything to me,” Xander replied, then tilted his head, lips pressing together as he caught his slip. “Well, he splattered me in fake blood and injected me with a potent paralytic agent.” He revised, spearing a piece of zucchini on the end of his fork and gesturing with it as he spoke. “You were there for that part. After I woke up, it was all about disproving my preconceptions, being my anchor, making us family again. He was insistent that I should trust him. He provided everything I needed.” Xander indicated his bespoke suit with a small vertical wave. “Case in point.” He popped the piece of zucchini into his mouth to punctuate the end of his sentence.

“You’re defending Jerome now?” Selina objected.

“No, merely stating facts. He is mentally unstable; I had my mind anchored to a manic, impulsive killer for a week straight. There’s a decent chance that I could have brain damage,” Jeremiah took a second to consider that before he went on. “He didn’t harm me on purpose. He didn’t even lock me in. Jerome wanted me to want to be there and -- consciously or not-- he took advantage of the fact that I couldn’t easily abandon him to indulge in that pipe dream.”

“You stayed with him by choice?” Bruce inferred, beginning to feel unsettled.

“Freedom is all about opportunity and much of that is an illusion,” Jeremiah smirked wryly to himself as a thought occurred. “Do you know what killed Oscar Totem?”

Bruce frowned, thrown by the apparent _non sequitur_. He wondered fleetingly if this were a tactic to avoid a disagreement, but if so it was a strange subject to choose.

“Based on the evidence, I’d say the poor bloke was burnt at the stake,” Alfred, being most versed in Lia Haddock’s investigation, provided for the less informed.

“That’s _how_ it ended. He wasn’t killed by the Cleaners. It was the Panic,” Jeremiah explained with chilling detachment. “I didn’t fully understand what happened that night until later. I’d never experienced death before-- it can mess with one’s thought process. Later, things slotted together, details I had disregarded. It was the control group. They’d had it in their heads for a while that we were getting special treatment. We were all being upgraded with great new tech! Why couldn’t _they_ have superpowers, too?” Jeremiah smiled without a trace of amusement. “Every once in a while someone would try to explain it to them. ‘You don’t want this _thing_ in your head.’ ‘There’s no turning back from this. It’ll blow your mind wide open and leave you stuck that way.’ Dr. Totem tried, too, but with him it was all about the scientific process. Then one of the scientists got selfish; he cheated the system so that his wife got an implant. Someone figured it out and the Old Crowd snapped. _That_ was the Panic. Suddenly, we weren’t people anymore; we were the enemy. They were hell bent on making us all pay, especially Dr. Totem. We were connected in a way that they couldn’t be and he was the one who made us special, but _not_ _them_. So all those good old _normal_ humans dragged him outside, beat him bloody and then forced us to feel him burn. It was our punishment.”

Jeremiah took a sip from his glass of Verdicchio and savored it. Bruce recognized it as a way to brace himself against emotional upheaval without allowing his vulnerability to show. 

“Then the Cleaners showed up. Jerome would call that the punchline. I felt their deaths too, all the same for anyone who didn’t have the hardware. Nothing personal. They simply weren’t necessary anymore,” Jeremiah reflected with a far off look. “The point being: I didn’t hide underground in a maze for six years because I was afraid of Jerome. It’s everyone else.” He turned to Alfred. “It disturbs you to hear me say that; I can feel it just as I feel the scrapes on Bruce’s knuckles and a spike of adrenaline through Selina’s veins in response to the reminder that I can feel what she’s feeling. Whenever I enter a space you occupy, I’m me and also a little bit you and a little of everyone else. I can mitigate that by anchoring myself to one particular mind-- narrow the scope so to speak-- but to escape Jerome meant giving that anchor up and risking the crowd without any destination in sight.”

“He could have killed you,” Bruce reminded his friend.

“It was a risk,” Jeremiah acknowledged, sounding more like he was speculating over a proposed design schematic rather than his own survival. “I certainly pushed his buttons a few times, yet here I am. As long as I was anchored to his mind that was the least of my problems.”

“He’s insane,” Bruce worried. “He could’ve driven you mad.”

“I was starting to experience some strange symptoms. I only realized it through his observations.” Jeremiah shrugged it off with false nonchalance. “That was only part of the reason why I left. Bruce, I was using you as an anchor when Xander Wilde was murdered.”

“That’s okay. I would’ve preferred that you were safely anchored to me than leave you vulnerable had I known about your implant. Besides, I wouldn’t have been able to discover that you were alive without our minds being connected,” Bruce accepted without hesitation.

“You’re going easy on him,” Selina noted, digging into her second serving of spaghetti.

“He is,” Jeremiah concurred with a warm smile. “That is sweet of you, Bruce. However, I don’t think you fully grasp our situation: we remained connected despite being separated by miles of distance, even after I was rendered unconscious. That doesn’t happen,” he explained. “I came back because the truth is, I have no idea how to rectify this _connection_ between us. I should apologize...” Xander toyed with his wine glass, watching the liquid moving within.

“I’ve told you. I don’t mind. I’m just glad that you’re okay,” Bruce insisted, feeling a little irritated that Xander wouldn’t just accept his acceptance. The corners of Xander’s burgundy lips lifted fondly.

“I am charmed, Bruce. You truly are the best friend I’ve ever had, but I am concerned that you don’t comprehend the danger you’re in.”

Bruce remembered the Bridge tape he’d listened to in Lia Haddock’s office; the man haunted by the mental screams of dead children, the fear he’d had that he might share that man’s fate as much as Xander might share that of those poor kids. He remembered the warning on the computer screen and the men who’d come looking for evidence to purge.

“I do,” he stated simply.

“You say that.”

“It’s the truth,” Bruce reasserted, grasping the empath’s bare wrist in a loose grip, Xander startled but didn’t pull away. “I know what could happen to me. I have chosen to take the risk. If I didn’t and you paid the price I would never forgive myself because I do understand what is at stake. This injustice can’t be allowed to continue.”

A deep, centering breath and Xander turned back to face his plate without a thought to eating. Bruce studied him -- reflecting on everything they had discussed so far, his guest’s stubborn uncertainty about staying under his watch -- and made a decision.

“I believe there’s something I need to show you.”

He led Xander into the study and unlocked the secure drawer in his father’s oak desk, revealing the session tapes lining the inside. Xander rounded the desk, stopping beside Bruce to stare at the small sample archive. After a fleeting hesitation he pulled out the cassette player still loaded with a tape and pressed play.

_“I know you’re upset, Jack, but you need to understand: sometimes when things get difficult it can make us feel lost when we’re not,” Dr. Totem’s voice resumed from the last place Bruce had stopped the playback._

“How did you get these?” Xander asked over the recording still playing on the desk. His voice was no longer as smooth and steady as it had been since their reunion in the kitchen.

“I went to APR. I barely got to these in time to keep them from the Cleaners,” Bruce informed him. Selina padded silently into the room and perched on the other end of the desk.

“Cleaners…” Xander echoed. The lights suddenly went out throughout the Manor, causing him to inhale a startled gasp. Bruce and Selina exchanged a look and she hopped down off the desk to look out into the hall for Alfred. Xander regarded the tape player with a haunted expression.

_“Your parents are very concerned.” Dr. Totem’s voice related. “They say that you’ve been having night terrors? Let’s talk about that.”_

* * *

 

Penguin smirked and pushed past Lee to get into the bank vault. They were almost done here anyway, another successful venture accomplished with help from his old friend, just like the good old days. 

“And so ends the tale of the Queen of the Narrows.” He cackled in petty victory. “Goodbye Lee!”

The Riddler watched until he was sure that both Penguin and Butch were distracted, then tucked the gun he’d been holding on Lee in the back of his belt and pulled a glass bottle stuffed with a rag out of his jacket. 

“What are you doing?” Lee asked, not yet certain whether the latest plot twist he was taking her through was a good or bad one. 

“What was that I said again? I am the revealer of masks? When I appear, friend becomes foe,” the Riddler recalled his own devious taunt from earlier and lit the rag. Lee stared at him, her brow pinched subtly.

“Betrayal,” she realized.

He smiled. “Exactly,” and tossed the homemade fire bomb into the vault. The vault’s sensors registered the blaze almost immediately triggering a lockdown that trapped Oswald and  Burch faster than they could begin to react. They rushed over to the bars caging them in anyway.

“What the Hell are you doing!” Butch demanded, furious in his latest betrayal-- as usual.

“Just burning up the deeds to the Narrows,” the Riddler replied casually. His dark, shark’s eyes crinkled in a merciless smile.

“No not _that_!” the albino protested.

“He’s proving his love to Lee by betraying us!” Penguin practically screamed. It was as if they were right back at the pier for a third round. This was not happening to him _again_!

“You know these bars can’t hold me!” Butch threatened. “When I get out--”

“We’ll be gone,” Riddler cut him off. “I just wanted you to hear something,” he directed towards the man he still professed to befriend. “Oswald, we’ve been through thick and thin, and I hold no grudge against you. But you come against Lee and you come against me!” He growled out the last words, holding up a finger to point at his no-longer-friend’s gawking face.

“I’m gonna dismember you, you _twerp_!” Butch reached out through the gap in the bars trying to grab for the Riddler’s throat.

“Yep. Not even gonna try with you,” the Riddler dismissed and walked away. Just when he was stepping out of sight all the lights went out, halting him in his tracks.

“Did someone cut the power?” Lee wondered and the Riddler hastened out of sight to check the windows. With a loud grunt of effort, Butch began pulling the bars apart with his unnatural strength. Penguin fell back to sit on his haunches and watch numbly. They were trapped, the power was out and he was fairly sure that he could distantly hear the sound of police sirens. This was rapidly proving to be a truly terrible night.

* * *

 

“All clear, then,” Alfred reported as he came into the study with a few candlesticks tucked under his arm. “It appears we have ourselves a bit of a power outage.”

“You’re certain?” Jeremiah tested, not feeling at all calm in spite of the Butler’s certainty and Bruce’s inherent acceptance of his verdict. “Cutting the power is the first thing that they would do--”

_Irritation. Offense._

“Don’t you think I know that?” Alfred replied rhetorically, beginning to place a few candles and light the wicks. “But they’re not. I’ve checked. It’s just the four of us here. I do know how to do my job.”

_Sympathy._

Bruce placed a hand on Jeremiah’s arm, guiding him towards the couches. “Xander, why don’t you sit down. It could be a while before the power comes back on.” Jeremiah looked down at the cassette player, prompting his friend to add, “Later.”

“I have spent too much of my life wearing masks,”Jeremiah pondered aloud, watching Bruce build a fire in the massive fireplace. “After I was taken, I learned that I had to be Jack, which I did until Jack was burned to death. So, I became Xander only for Xander to be exposed and murdered on live television. I told myself that I was holding off on the start of my next life because Ecco is the one who names me. Then she found us but I still wasn’t ready, because the truth is my days are numbered--the real me-- and I don’t want to waste the end of my existence being anybody else. Jerome only ever saw me as his twin. He thinks of me as _his_ and he has an army at his beck and call. If there is a chance for me to live anywhere as myself... He and his gangster friends can fight the killers off for a little while. He’ll even enjoy it.”

“We can find a way to get Ecco back without risking your safety,” Bruce stubbornly asserted.

_Fear. Determination. Concern._

Jeremiah let out a sigh. “You weren’t listening.”

“I heard you, Jeremiah,” Bruce corrected, underlining that fact with the use of his birth name.

Jeremiah fell silent, lying on his back across one of the twin couches as Alfred lit the last candles. Selina decided to join him, relaxing on the couch back in a manner well-befitting her nickname. Alfred left to make sure that the hall and stairway leading up to the bedrooms were safely lit as Bruce rose from his crouch over the growing fire.

_Uncertainty._

The silence started to wear on, threatening to become uncomfortable. Bruce cast about for something neutral to say to break the silence, coming up with nothing; he just awkwardly sat down across from them. So Jeremiah solved the problem for him.

“That could really use a grille.”

Bruce breathed out a laugh. _Relief._

“So you _do_ understand the concept of caution,” Selina slyly joked, still resting languidly above Jeremiah like a lounging panther. The quiet threatened to return for an instant along with Bruce’s uncertainty.

“Jerome wasn’t always terrible.” Jeremiah’s soft voice carried remarkably well in the heavy stillness of the night, having only to compete with the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Selina was primed to object, but he kept going. “He was my big brother. He opened doors for me and paid attention in a way that our mom couldn’t-- and yes, he could be cruel. I know that he resented having to look after me, but he was a kid, too. He still tried to help me feel like a normal kid even though he couldn’t. We played hide and seek sometimes and yes, sometimes, he chose not to find me--”

“That’s real sweet,” Selina scorned. Bruce tactfully didn’t comment. _Curious._

“But _sometimes_ he played along. He gave me a knife so that I could protect myself from Uncle Zach and one time there was a nasty storm outside. We had to seal up all the windows and the door to the trailer. I was terrified by the thunder so Jerome stayed up all night with me, teaching me card tricks, telling stories, and when I couldn’t settle down, he played Sock Grab with me until I was too exhausted to cry anymore.”

“Do you still know any good card tricks?” Bruce inquired politely.

“No such thing,” Selina intercepted, turning on the man currently functioning as her impromptu leg warmer. “Back up. What is ‘Sock Grab’? There’s no way that that’s a well known game.”

“Oh, no. You’re right; Jerome made it up and it kind of caught on with all the Circus children.”

_Amusement. Fond suspicion._ Jeremiah wondered what trick Bruce suspected he might be playing.

Selina in contrast was all about clarification; an odd switch. “Enlighten us. Are there rules?”

Jeremiah actually blushed, a tint of rose that despite his hopes stood out against his pallid complexion even in the dim lighting. “It’s simple. All the players crouch together in a circle --or facing each other if only two people are playing-- and try to snatch the other player’s sock. Once you have a sock from each opponent, you have to get to base before the others can get their sock back, or if they have your sock they can race you to the base. If they reach it first you’re disqualified. Oh, and no biting is allowed. He was very insistent about that.”

Bruce sent his quickly reddening friend an expectant look. 

“He was a lot stronger than me,” Jeremiah defended.

Selina smirked. “That’s gotta be the most undignified game I’ve ever heard of. I can totally see Jerome coming up with something like that.”

“You probably don’t want to hear about Sock Grab Blue, then.”

“What?” Bruce questioned. He clearly did.

“The point is he tried,” Jeremiah clarified, self-conscious. “He wasn’t always a monster. Can you blame me for hoping that maybe we could go back to that?” 

“To Sock Grab Blue?” Bruce responded, playing dumb. Jeremiah was not going to play into it.

“You know what I mean.”

* * *

 

They hurried to their car parked on the street, one block down from the bank. The effort was killing Oswald’s crippled leg but it just meant he felt that much more accomplished when he slid into his shotgun seat before Butch reached his own place on the driver’s side. That is, he did until he heard the ominous _snick_ of all the door locks triggering in unison, something that could only be done from inside the vehicle. His eyes widened.

“Hey! What are ya’ doin’!” Butch exclaimed, smacking the driver’s side window. “Let me in Os--”

A colossal, hulking form shifted upright in the darkness of the backseat, wrapping a muscular arm around Oswald’s neck from behind.

“Son of a--” Butch pulled his gun. The unidentified silhouette shot him in the chest with almost mechanical efficiency before he could aim his own gun. Oswald pulled the knife hidden in the handle of his cane only to have his captor’s gun pressed to his temple in nearly the same instant.

“No. You're going to follow my instructions exactly, then you will get out of this alive. Confirm that you understand.”

“Do you have any idea--” the Penguin seethed.

“Yes. You have five seconds to comply.” The man didn’t sound even the faintest bit affected by the thought of kidnapping the King of Gotham’s Underworld, almost as if this was just another Monday for him. Interesting, infuriating, but perhaps recognizing that could prove helpful in his defeat.

“Fine,” the Penguin hissed. “I understand.”

“When I give the order you will roll down your window and toss out your weapons. Make a sound and I will kill you without hesitation.” He paused as if looking around for something, then prompted. “Go.”

Oswald rolled his window down and tossed out his knife, then his pistol, grinding his teeth all the while. He was about to roll it back up when the gun was pressed painfully hard against the side of his head. 

“All of them,” his captor insisted, his tone unchanged from its businesslike demeanor.

With a grimace, Oswald relinquished the second hidden knife from his left sleeve.

“Pass me your phone.”

Oswald complied and was promptly slammed forward against the dash and out of consciousness. When he woke again hours later, he was in darkness tied to a metal chair with a lamp pointed at his face and not a single trace of an indication as to where he had been taken. 

“What is this? Let me go now or my men will flay you! Do you understand?! I am the King of Gotham! You will not treat me with such disrespect! Do you hear me? I will murder you!” Penguin raged into the too-bright light. 

Deliberate, thudding steps quaked the earth below, sending vibrations up through Oswald’s legs as something massive slowly approached.  It both felt and sounded as if a Titan were coming to claim his puny human life, but instead his captor merely pulled out the chair opposite, allowing nothing but the stark outline of his formidable figure to be seen beyond the blinding force of the lamp.

“I hear you,” he replied unimpressed. This man could hardly be associated with the word vulnerable unless preceded by the words ‘to him, you are’ but in Oswald’s experience, everyone has a weakness. He would be damned if this man proved to be the exception.

“You cannot possibly believe that you will get away with this! I can’t even fathom what it is you could think that you are doing!”

“Are you done?” The behemoth’s voice was calm, pleasant, perhaps even a hint paternal.

Penguin took in a haughty breath. “For now. What do you want?”

“That’s much better. Good to meet you, Mr. Cobblepot. I’d like to talk to you about a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

“You will have to be more specific.”

“He’s had a lot of names over the years. I’m not really sure yet what he’s calling himself these days, but you might recognize him as Xander Wilde.”

“I see,” Penguin sneered as it all clicked into place and he remembered the list Jerome had so faithfully risked his life to retrieve. “You’re the man who was tracking him.” Oswald laughed derisively. “I guess you just can’t accept that his brother managed to kill him first. On the first try, no less: how _embarrassing_.”

“He isn’t dead.”

Penguin cocked his head mockingly as if thinking it over. “Uh, yes he is. Jerome slit Xander’s throat.”

“If he was dead, I’d know.” There was an impressive amount of certainty put into those six words.

“Ah yes, you must be magic then!” Oswald responded sarcastically. “If you’re so certain then whyever would you need me?”

“I know he’s not dead, but I don’t have his name. You’re going to give it to me.”

“Well then it is unfortunate that I have to spell this out for you.” Penguin leaned forward, relishing the small victory gained in his captor’s failure. “I don’t know! If you were looking for answers you should really have tried his brother.” He made a falsely empathetic face. “I can see why you didn’t.”

His captor took Oswald’s phone out, holding it in clear view as he used it to check the time. “I will when he gets here.”

“Well then. As we are discussing names. What should we write on your tombstone?” Oswald challenged, feeling uplifted by even the chance that Jerome might come for him. He’d definitely enjoy that show.

The kidnapper closed and tucked away Penguin’s phone in a pocket of his black, military surplus jacket. “You can call me Daniel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so yay; new canon character introduction! Am I the only one who's excited about that? That seems fair... Anyway, I'd like to take a moment to apologize for the weird silence I've given you guys for the past couple weeks, especially to my dear commenters(sorry that I didn't get back to you as I should've because you are the best.) I've had stuff in real life taking up my focus and keeping me away from writing and communicating in my usual way, but hopefully that'll change now. I have missed this, it's always such a relief/aid to hear readers reactions to things. I hope I haven't lost ya.


	11. Mini Episode: Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for Violence

 

It had been only a couple of days since his final conflict with Jerome, and Oswald had a Problem. He hated this place. He had sworn to himself as soon as he had broken free from Dr. Strange’s conditioning that he was never going back to Arkham-- yet, here he was. That was not the Problem. In a strange way Jerome’s antagony had been a blessing. Oswald had been too busy out-maneuvering the ginger menace to stop and consider his surroundings. Now he was alone, in the closest place to Hell on Earth that he could imagine and everyone wanted a piece of the fallen King of Gotham.  _ That _ was his Problem.

The worst of it was the eyes. Oswald felt so many of them watching him as he got in line for breakfast. The feeling intensified as he moved down the line. Oswald limped over to his usual seat with his back to the wall. The eyes of predators sized up their prey. Two of the largest, meanest-looking inmates dispersed from the slop line to prowl towards him; Oswald found himself silently speculating over whether he was being put down by messengers of the Falcones or if two nobodies were taking advantage of his misfortune to make a name for themselves. He would like to imagine it was the former-- more dignified somehow. Oswald didn’t show fear; too many eyes were watching. The two giants were almost within striking range when an unexpected visitor plopped onto the bench directly across from their prey, causing him to jump.

“Hiya, Oswald! Whatcha up to today?” Jerome inquired playfully, as if a lifelong friend. He didn’t really leave an opening for Oswald to say anything, even if he weren’t stuck gawking at the younger man still prattling on cheerfully, “There’s a new batch o’ crazies comin’ in this evening. I’m probably gonna’ give that a look. ‘Might see someone interesting. Prob’ly not. What about you?”

The two thugs diverted course as if repelled by an invisible barrier. Jerome leaned forward to prop his head on his arm, looking at Oswald with an expression reminiscent of an eager child. It was an odd juxtaposition with his grisly appearance. Oswald took note of the redhead’s effect on his would-be attackers before answering.

“I--I don’t--” He cleared his throat, returning to a more dignified temperament. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“You hadn’t given it much thought?” Jerome echoed, with a chuckle. He shrugged it off, undaunted by what he apparently found to be uncharacteristic behavior. “Good! I got some stuff I wanna show ya’. You been up on the roof yet?”

“Neither of us is permitted to set foot outside this building. Both of our sentences were explicit about that.”

“How d’you know about the details of my sentence?” Jerome asked, reaching for Oswald’s disgustingly paste-like pudding? Yogurt? Cheese? Oswald hadn’t the faintest idea other than that it bore a definite if inexplicable relation to sweetness. He pushed the untrustworthy item into Jerome’s reaching hand, picking at his much safer serving of grayish, lukewarm canned peas. Protein is important for retaining one’s strength.

“I have-- I  _ had _ eyes and ears everywhere,” Oswald replied, flicking a jet black pea off of his tray in disgust. Jerome ducked sideways to catch it in his mouth before going back to work on consuming his pudding-cheese. “I made it a point to know who all the players were and any possible contenders that might need to be dealt with down the line. Complacency is the swiftest route to a  _ coup _ .”

“Huh. That what happened to you?” Jerome asked, tossing the empty pudding cup over his shoulder without a care as to where it landed. He was focused unblinkingly on Oswald’s face with watchful eyes camouflaged by a fool’s carefree smile.

Oswald bit back his ire in response to the youth’s presumption. “Hardly.”

“Okay. Ya’ gonna eat your meat thing?” Jerome gestured to a hunk of burnt, grainy beige sitting unacknowledged on Oswald’s tray. It was salmonella poisoning waiting to happen, so, no. Nevertheless, it would not do to appear submissive.

“Don’t you have your own food?” Oswald asked scathingly.

“Nah, I ate it already-- except the peas. I threw my peas at Carl,” Jerome replied.

“ _ Mrauugh _ !” issued dejectedly from somewhere behind him.

“Shut the fuck up, Carl!” Jerome hollered back over his shoulder with an annoyed pout. Oswald narrowed his eyes, suspecting that there was a story behind their animosity which could prove useful-- No. He was keeping his head down, solitary and quiet for Martin’s safety, he reminded himself. He tipped his tray toward the distracted madman and plastered on a thin smile.

“All yours, then.”

* * *

 

Oswald followed Jerome down the barren, poorly lit corridors, finding it odd and eerie that they hadn’t had to duck out of sight of a single guard. 

“Ah! Here we go!” Jerome pranced forward and pulled a key out of the top of his boot, using it to open the heavy metal access door to the roof. He turned back, waving Oswald over. “Hey, Pengy. Come on!” He darted outside as soon as Oswald was within reach of the portal. 

Oswald himself was far less enthusiastic, choosing to linger by the door. He had only gone along with this out of awareness of how badly things would go for him if he offended the uncrowned ruler of Arkham’s prison population. For a minute, Jerome seemed not even to notice, flitting about energetically in what Oswald was beginning to think of as his flamboyant clown act while his piercing, predator’s eyes took in every inch of the grounds below. Once this survey was accomplished, however, Oswald’s absence occurred to him. He turned on the spot with camouflaged grace and precision that Oswald only recognized now he was looking for it --flamboyant indeed-- and displayed a questioning scowl.

“Whatcha standin’ way over there for?” 

“This is fine,” Oswald replied, voice tight but polite. “There’s plenty of fresh air here.”

“Nah, come ‘ere. I wanna show ya somethin’,” Jerome beckoned for him to step closer. The light of the sunset wreathed his head in bright, flaming orange like some demonic tempter. This time Oswald didn’t budge.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’d much prefer to stay where I am.”

“Come and play, Little Bird,” Jerome teased in a not at all reassuring manner. His eyebrows arched in genuine surprise. “Don’t tell me  _ you’re _ afraid of heights!”

Oswald let out a haughty scoff. “No, I am not afraid of heights. I am, however, quite unenthusiastic about plummeting to my death, like any reasonable person!”

“You’re not gonna fall, Penguin.”

“Furthermore, had you paid any attention in school at all you’d realize that Penguins are flightless birds!”

“Uh huh.  _ Yeah _ ... didn’t do school; that was my brother’s thing,” Jerome volunteered as if it were nothing, crossing back over to Oswald to usher him out onto the roof with a firm grip on the smaller man’s bony shoulders.

“What--  _ No _ .” Once they got four feet shy of the edge, Oswald dug his heels in, refusing to be led any further and dug his nails into his captor’s forearms. If Jerome was planning to kill him, Oswald had every intention of dragging his killer down with him.

“Easy, Pengy. We’re friends here, remember?” Jerome said, voice vibrating with mirth. “Wow. You’ve got real boney fingers!”

“The last  _ friend _ I had shot me in the gut and left me to drown in the harbor,” Oswald spat with every ounce of bile that memory instilled in him, staring down the edge of the roof. 

Jerome burst into a giggle fit behind him, resting his forehead on Oswald’s shoulder to steady himself. 

“How is that funny?!”

“Didn’t he know? Penguins swim,” Jerome joked. Oswald shoulder-shoved him back a half-step, then remembered his tenuous position and turned to bolt for the door. Jerome reclaimed his hold too fast, letting out a contented breath. Oswald made a mental note of his quick reflexes. ”But yeah. Ya’ got a point there. People always act like you’ve gotta have someone who sticks their neck out for ya’ when they’ve got no reason to. I figure if that’s a friend, we might as well be talkin’ about a unicorn.” Jerome rubbed at his chin in a thinking pose, then lit with inspiration. “Ah, got it! We’ll be pals, then.” He nodded to himself as if the problem were solved. “Look over there.”

“They’re the same thing!” Oswald hissed in frustration.

“Nuh uh. Different language. Now  _ look _ ,” Jerome persevered, physically turning Oswald’s head for him with a hand on his crown. With a deeply unenthusiastic eye-roll, Oswald acquiesced. 

“And why am I looking at the roof of the East Wing?”

“See that part where the vent pokes up--no not that one. The other one,” Jerome directed vaguely. Oswald took his time to parse what that meant by considering the options.

“You’re referring to the metal-plated vent with barbed wire criss-crossed over the mouth?”

“Bingo! See, that thing goes--” Jerome traced the path down with a descending whistle. “--all the way down to the basement. Ya’ know, where Strange did all his weirdo lab stuff? That’s where they keep me at night-- well, s‘ far as  _ they _ know.” He winked deviously. “I wasn’t sure ‘til a couple o’ months ago. ‘Got bored an’ decided to give my guards the slip on the way in. They thought the tranqs were still workin’ so it wasn’t tough. I ended up back in that one green room with all the people-tanks in it by the time they caught up with me.”

Oswald turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, his fear of being shoved off the roof utterly forgotten in light of what he was hearing. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, Strange didn’t take you down there? I just figured. Ya know, since you’ve been talkin’ about ‘im so much in your sleep,” Jerome remarked as if they weren’t discussing the worst atrocity that either of them had ever been connected to. “They’re these big aquariums with weird patterns of light in the glass that ya’ can only see from in the water.” His eyes roamed Oswald’s stunned face, then he shrugged it off. “Nothin? Eh, ‘don’t think ya missed much. I might not be remembering it right. My head gets--” he waggled his fingers by the side of his head. “--sometimes. I dunno.”

Oswald didn’t know what question to start with. Luckily or not, his mouth decided for him. “What makes you think that I’ve been talking in my sleep?”

“Uh, I hear ya doin’ it all the time...”

“I’m going to require a little more clarification than that.”

“Well, my containment cell is right below ya’. I can hear you shiftin’ around a lot and you’re usually already mumbling by the time I get up there,” Jerome said, stepping around him to sit with his feet dangling over the edge.

“You’ve been sleeping in my vent!” Oswald realized appalled. 

“Yep.”

“You  _ pervert _ !”

“Hey,” Jerome laughed out. “Calm down. It ain’t like that.”

“You’ve been spying on me in my sleep! You tormented me! You made a  _ spectacle _ of me!”

Jerome stood to face him with a look of almost childlike excitement shining in his eyes. “So, what’re ya gonna do about it?” 

His arms were relaxed at his sides and he was bent forward slightly. In this position Oswald had easy access to most of his body’s vulnerable points. Hell, there was even a chance that he could shove Jerome off the roof if he caught him off guard. The Penguin stopped in the midst of his wrathful tirade truly to observe Jerome. One does not expose oneself so completely to an opponent without an ace hidden up one’s sleeve. He doubted this was a trap; Jerome didn’t need pretenses to kill or maim. It was  _ attention _ that he craved more than anything, yet they were alone.  _ Why _ ? Jerome was impulsive, straight-forward, but more cunning than he appeared. Oswald suddenly remembered the end of their showdown, surrounded by a crowd of fellow inmates. How excitedly he’d laughed as Oswald kicked him in the ribs over and over. 

_ “Another one! Right here,” _ he had cheered, pointing at his own bloody face as if it were all a game. Oswald had been mistaken. He’d thought that he was proving his mettle in order to gain respect. That wasn’t what this was at all. He was being vetted.

“Whatcha gonna do, Pal!?” Jerome repeated as the silence stretched beyond his now obvious expectation. What indeed. Oswald straightened, feeling calm, collected and back in control as he turned and headed for the door. “Hey, where are you goin’?”

“I think I’d like to prepare for dinner early.” Oswald gave a nonsense answer; maintain the mystery.

“ _ Prepare _ ,” Jerome parroted, watching his departure in confusion. “What d’ya mean prepare? It ain’t time yet. Pengy?”

As Oswald left, he heard the madman following -- curiosity: good.

* * *

 

There were a few things that Oswald had learned in the week since Jerome had randomly decided they were “pals”. Lessons such as: it is best not to be alone with Carl unless you’re willing to have your head licked; it is unexpectedly easy to become accustomed to a madman sleeping in your vent every night if you go to sleep at the right time. And being “pals” with Jerome Valeska wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared because the chances of being attacked tended to plummet from likely to nil whenever he was within sight or hearing range. Oswald still had no idea whether Jerome would care if anyone ever did jump him, but he supposed it didn’t matter so long as everyone assumed that he would. He told Jerome stories about his exploits, wove them with lessons as Fish had done for him: subtle, hidden so that one had to listen carefully to learn. He laughed at some of Jerome’s jokes and made a couple of his own. Oswald made sure to keep just slightly out of step with expectations. He was  _ interesting _ or as Jerome put it “a fun guy.” It kept him alive, protected. He almost started to feel comfortable even when he knew he shouldn’t, until the day when everything changed. 

Oswald felt eyes lingering on him almost the instant he left his cell that afternoon, not the ever-present stares of guards, but something more feral. He looked around for Carl or the big, hairy new arrival “Russ,” whom he’d noticed Jerome staring down whenever he got close. He saw no one, but the feeling wouldn’t shift. Oswald tried not to show how much it bothered him; it wasn’t as if he could run. He moved as quickly as he could to the rec room. Jerome was usually there before him, sitting in his seat of honor in the bleachers, flanked by muscle and surrounded by an assorted harem of whoever was trying to curry his favor lately. It was so expected that Oswald relaxed as soon as he neared the door before he could search for the familiar patch of vibrant orange hair. He’d assumed instead of verified: stupid. Oswald stepped through the door and someone stepped behind him to bar his escape within seconds-- not Russ, a familiar face; Sophia was finally getting rid of him.

Oswald looked towards Jerome’s unofficial throne to find it empty and had just enough time to mutter half a curse in Hungarian before he was tackled by-- Oh, there’s Russ, Oswald acknowledged dazedly as his head smacked into the dark, tiled floor. He tasted blood, must’ve bit his tongue-- A huge fist struck him in the chest again and again and he couldn’t breathe! A shank was pressed to his throat. Oswald did not want to die like this, so dirty and undignified, nothing but a stain smeared across the floor of a madhouse! His mind raced. He couldn’t move! Somebody screamed, shrill and brief as if they’d been cut off before they could properly start.  An unmistakable laugh echoed through the sudden silence, freezing Russ just as its point stung Oswald’s tender throat. He was no longer on top of Oswald. 

Blinking in a disconcerted haze, Oswald sat up just in time to see Jerome bodily flip Russ onto the games table at the center of the room hard enough that it audibly cracked-- or maybe that was the sound of Russ’ bones. He was screaming in pain and waving his shank in a blind attempt at defense while Jerome pinned his head with a claw-like grip over his face. A rictus grin split Jerome’s scarred features while his other hand tore into his victim. Jerome didn’t even seem to register when the shank struck his own flesh-- or perhaps he was savoring it. He was a demon tearing apart a condemned soul: relentless, maddening and utterly wild. He only released Russ’ body once it was completely limp and motionless. Russ’ blood was splattered all over him and Oswald waited for Jerome to step back and drop his weapon. The guards swarmed in as Jerome stepped back, raised his red stained hands and his dark, glistening eyes met Oswald’s. 

There was no weapon.

 Jerome had torn the other man’s flesh with his bare hands, a feral beast. The guards circled him and he behaved as if compliant, docile, still grinning from ear to ear. All finished. He got down on the ground, let them chain him, let them lead him out. His eyes never left Oswald’s and as he was led past the Penguin by too many frightened guards, he winked. Oswald had never been in control. He hadn’t manipulated anything. He was Jerome’s and that was the only reason why he was still alive. Jerome was King and the King of Arkham was always watching.

Later that night Oswald was woken briefly by the monster sleeping in his vent. Jerome was shifting around agitatedly, uncomfortable or plagued by dreams darker than Oswald cared to think about. Oswald pried the rusted screen open and let him in. If a harbinger of death like Jerome protected him, the only threat he’d have to fear was that solitary one. No one would stare at the little bird perched on the Devil’s shoulder. No one but Jerome, himself.


	12. Episode Nine: Daniel Rassmueller

 

Jeremiah opened his eyes, staring pensively up at the high ceiling of his guest room at Wayne Manor as he processed the  _ wrongness _ that he was feeling. 

“Two new minds have joined us,” he processed aloud, still mulling over how that could possibly be. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Jeremiah looked at the clock and noticed that it was barely 3:00 am. He sat up in bed debating what, if anything, he should do about his odd discovery, but in the end, what  _ could _ he do? He lay back down, awaiting the arrival of a more decent hour of the morning. His mind buzzed with different abstract  _ what if’s  _ and  _ could be’s _ in regard to the problem. He didn’t sleep a wink.

* * *

 

“This is a stupid thing to do,” Ecco stated for the 15 th time as their stolen armored truck pulled up at the docks in front of a dark and ominous warehouse. Not that that last part was saying much; most of the buildings here in Gotham had a bit of ominousness to them. That probably isn’t a real word... ominosity, ominism -- Meh, that’s the kind of thing Jere would know and correct him on, but he ran off, so, ominosity it is! “Jerome, are you listening?”

“No,” Jerome replied with a shrug as a dozen or so of his devoted followers poured out of the back doors behind him. 

“What if I told you that I’m pretty sure I know where Jeremiah is?”

Jerome waited.

“He’s with his best friend,” Ecco supplied cagily, clever enough not to negate her value to him yet. She could just as easily be full of it.

Jerome stared into her face in search of a tell, then went back to the aloof manchild routine. “I don’t see what a big bad bitch like you’s got to be so afraid of--”

“I have been  _ telling _ you,” Ecco interrupted, turning to look back through the grate at him from her place in the shotgun seat, not exactly fed up, not indifferent: neat!

“Yeah, an’ I heard some of it. Real  _ boring _ .” Jerome gave a dismissive wave and hopped out the back, coming ‘round to open her door for her like the gentlemen he wasn’t. “I get the lethal danger thing an’ all but you know me! I’m a curious kinda guy!”

“I don’t know you,” Ecco rejected, crossing her arms over her chest and looking to the windshield rather than get out of the passenger’s seat to join him. Jerome leaned an arm on the open door, watching her pout for a second; it was pretty damn cute, especially with the little pigtail buns she was sporting today.

“You like me!” he purred and leaned closer until his breath was bound to be tickling her cheek. “Afraid o’ losin’ me, Punkin’ Pie?”

“You aren’t the target. Daniel doesn’t care about you. If the man I think is here is here, he’s looking for Jeremiah and me, in that order. He wouldn’t come after you unless he knew that he was going to get exactly what he wanted out of it.”

Jerome laughed, a muted version of his intimidating mania. Behind the façade he was thinking it over. 

“Sounds like your ol’ guard buddy doesn’t know me either. What, has this guy been livin’ under a rock? I mean hasn’t he heard the stories?” He looked past the pouty mercenary to his devoted follower sitting in the driver’s seat. 

The idiot looked appalled by the very idea. 

“I know, right!? Well, anyways, it looks like I’ll just have to put on a real good show for ya!” Jerome outwardly enthused, shutting the passenger door and leaning forward against it. He caught the cult member’s eye again and snapped on his serious face lightning fast “You, Whatsisname--”

“I’m Pete.” 

“That’s great. Stay here an’ guard this one while I’m gone.” Jerome’s demented grin returned with the same abruptness. “I’m gonna have some fun tonight!”

Jerome strolled after his followers as they rammed their way in--

_ Boom! _ The freight entry they’d been breaking into for their assault exploded with a vengeful eruption of flame and raw force, killing many instantly and knocking Jerome back hard on the unforgiving blacktop. His ears were ringing too much to hear anything else and his head felt as if it were packed painfully full of gauze. He was aware in a detached, factual way that he was hurt-- in pain, but the sensation was strangely disconnected. He was surrounded by smoke and muzzle flashes. Falling bodies. Blood splatter. Body parts. The last cult member alive --at least within Jerome’s field of vision-- was taken down by a bullet straight to the heart.

“No, no, no, J!” That voice sounded familiar, which was weird because Jerome still couldn’t hear anything. “Don’t you dare die  _ now _ .”

“Jere...” Jerome wasn’t able to tell if he’d mumbled or merely breathed around the word.

“He’s going to keep coming. This man will not stop unless you stop him, so:  _ Get _ .  _ Up _ .”

Jerome jolted back into full consciousness and crawled upright, grabbing his shotgun off the ground. He bounded into the smoke and rubble of his followers’ ambush, screaming with laughter like a nightmare creature. There was a dark figure running across one of the twin platforms above, that sandwiched the lower level with their rusting, metal frames.

“It’s about time you got here!” Penguin complained, entitled as the King of Gotham usually tended to be. “Well? Are you going to cut these ropes or--” A blade was thrown into the side of one chair arm, cutting the bindings on his left wrist only: an afterthought. “Jerome! Where are you going?! Don’t--” Oswald looked down at himself and muttered, “Unbelievable!” as he began working to free himself.

Jerome chased after the larger man, shotgun at the ready. His boots clanged loudly against the mesh paneling as he charged up the stairs after his prey. When he got to the top there was a whoosh from outside, a rocket flying, then BOOM! 

With a suspicious frown, Jerome paused in his chase.

“Ecco?” he wondered, not that he cared, but she was useful in the search for Jere. Through the external door at the far end of the catwalk he saw his prey putting away a rocket launcher. The older man glanced over at him as if he’d heard and dragged a finger across his throat. Yep, his ears were ringing, the getaway car had just been blown up and Jerome was officially annoyed. He pumped his shotgun and aimed it down the catwalk right as the black clad figure stepped back in from the top of the external staircase. The cocky bastard had packed his weapon back up already as if he wasn’t about to need it. With a vicious leer, Jerome fired. The older man stumbled back half a step as the buckshot hit. No blood, no injury: the fucker was wearing level 4 body armor! He looked back at Jerome, around a gauntlet protected forearm, unimpressed, as if to say “Are you done yet?” Jerome readied for another shot, just because. That got a casual shrug, then his opponent charged, ramming Jerome off his feet and kicking his gun off the catwalk. He pulled Jerome up by the front of his suit and slammed his head repeatedly against the metal below. It hurt, a  _ lot _ . The guy was as big as Butch and twice as muscular; add the body armor and Jerome might as well have just been hit by a freakin’ car. Still, he couldn’t help but laugh. It really was hilarious; he couldn’t have kept it in if he’d tried!

“What’re you laughing about?” the giant crouched over him demanded. Jerome showed him the grenade pins adorning his fingers like rings. “Crazy sonova--” the fearless warrior leapt back and hastily hurled the three grenades secured to his belt, flinching away as they exploded at barely a safe distance. Jerome hauled himself to his feet using the arm rail, pulling his arm back for a mean right hook. His opponent surged forward and caught it, using his trapped arm to pull Jerome in, punching him hard in the gut. Jerome pulled a knife out of his sleeve only to be yanked aside by his hair and thrown down the stairs. His face smacked into the arm rail on the way down and he lost the knife. Weaponless, coughing and seeing lights floating in his vision, Jerome turned his head to see his shotgun on the ground about a yard out of reach.

The professional killer pulled a handgun out from behind his belt. Jerome slowly blinked up at him, stunned for the second time that night. His killer aimed--  _ no _ he wasn’t aiming at Jerome’s head… or his chest. He was going to shoot his knees, maybe cripple him for life!

“ _ Hello _ ! Aren’t you forgetting something?!” Oswald shouted, taunting and giddy and oh-so-pleased with himself. Then he was stepping into view to stand over Jerome’s bleary head, firing up at his fleeing kidnapper. “That’s right! Run away! Run for your life!” Penguin looked down at Jerome.

“And  _ that _ is why you always untie me first,” Oswald lectured.

* * *

 

Ecco was stuck in the car waiting for one psychopath to murder another psychopath whom she was using to catch her rebellious brother. It was disappointing; she’d even started to like this guy-- a little, nothing to write home about. It was just a shame that her brother was about to lose his twin is all, and Ecco wasn’t even going to be there to console him because she was stuck doing this instead. She heard an explosion, felt the reverberations jolt her nerves. Is he dead already? That would be anticlimactic. Probably not, then. He’s too much of a showman to go down so easy-- not that she cared, not really. Jerome’s survival was  _ not _ Ecco’s problem. She was only here for her foster brother.

A barrage of gunfire. There was an exchange going on. Daniel was clearing the battlefield and Jerome hadn’t made a peep-- which was wrong. Jerome  wasn’t quiet. Is he dead?

“Not my problem,” Ecco told herself aloud, drawing the attention of her insane company.

“You say something?”

“No, Steve, just thinking aloud,” Ecco corrected, her eyes scanning the side of the building that Jerome and his lackeys had disappeared around for any sight of a familiar shock of bright orange hair. 

“It’s Pete,” the cult member corrected.

“What? Oh, sorry Pete.” Ecco was barely paying attention, reminding herself that Jerome wasn’t her responsibility; her little brother was. She protected her family: it was just the two of them against the world. That’s the way things had always been. Jerome was her brother’s twin… The gunfire ceased. The silence seemed to extend into eternity. 

Ecco was worried. 

Finally a burst of shrill, deranged laughter broke through the oppressive lull. Ecco let out the breath she’d been holding; her psychopath was definitely still breathing. Daniel probably was, too. Jerome was alone and outclassed. Pressing her lips together in a way that was once reserved for times when she and Jack were two orphans stuck under a roof together and she’d just heard one of the older boys or, rarely, a cruel adult talking shit about “mute kid.”

“Damn,” she stated decisively and reached for the door handle. A hand landed on her shoulder.

“Where you goin’?”

“Back off, Pierre.” Ecco clamped a hand over his, removing it from her shoulder with a painful grip and moved to hop out-- only to still when her eyes caught on movement in the car’s side mirror. She squinted at the dark shape perched at the top edge of the stairs until she could discern enough of his movements to realise what he was doing. With a sharp gasp Ecco threw herself out of the car, sprinting to dive behind a pile of old shipping crates just in time to avoid the explosion. She stayed curled on the ground with her arms held protectively over her head for a few seconds, hearing her heart pounding in her ears, then slowly unfurled. Ecco looked back at the burning remains of the truck.

“Sorry, Pete.” She swallowed down her conscience; it wouldn’t be helpful here. With any luck, as far as the enemy knew, Ecco was dead. She needed to take advantage of the opportunity while she still could. She was a professional: she would salvage this.

* * *

 

Jim hung his coat up in the corner of his office and headed for his desk, begrudgingly. He wouldn’t stay long; there was simply too much up in the air at the moment. Jerome Valeska was still on the loose, Leslie Thompkins was in holding after being caught at the tail end of the Riddler’s latest bank robbery last night, not to mention the highly suspicious blackout. All Jim wanted was a chance to sit and settle and have one fortifying cup of coffee before succumbing to the impending onslaught of the day. Just as he was sitting back with a report unopened in front of him on his desk, taking the first sip, Lucius Fox knocked on his door. With a resigned grumble, Jim waved him in.

“Good morning, Captain.”

“Yeah, ‘morning. What have you got for me Lucius?”

“I’ve been in contact with the cybersecurity division at Wayne Industries. There was some suspicion regarding the timing and scope of last night’s blackout, so we had a few of our best people look into it and considering what they found, I thought it was best to apprise you immediately,” Lucius explained, pulling a manila envelope out of his satchel. “This is a copy of the report, for the sake of full disclosure.”

“I already had my own suspicions,” Jim slipped the papers out of the envelope and skimmed over the first two pages of the intimidatingly dense report. “I doubt that I’m going to be able to make heads or tails of this.”

“The cliffsnotes so far: it wasn’t an accident. The blackout was caused by a deliberate hack to the power facility’s governing systems using a highly sophisticated computer virus. Our guys are still working on tracking it back to its source, but to speak bluntly Captain Gordon, I’ve looked at their findings; the code that this hacker used… none of us have seen anything like it before and frankly, that simply shouldn’t be possible.”

“So, what are we talking, some kind of bleeding edge government tech?”

“Jim, we make the bleeding edge government tech and this was definitely nothing of ours.”

“There are other government contractors out there on Wayne Industries’ level, right?” Jim pointed out.

“Not on Wayne Tech’s level, not anymore. STAR Labs came pretty close, but they cancelled the last of their government contracts back in 2013. We haven’t had a competitor like Harrison Wells ever since.”

“So why would anyone with this kind of means want to take out Gotham’s electrical grid last night?”

“For precisely four hours,” Lucius put in helpfully. 

Jim frowned up at him. “Four hours?”

“Down to the second. It’s on page 3.”

“Someone hacked into Gotham’s power grid and powered down the entire city for exactly four hours last night, then turned everything back on,” Jim absorbed, having a hard time believing what he was hearing. “How is that even possible?”

“We don’t know,” Lucius admitted.

“Do we have any clue as to why that window of time could have been so important?”

“Not as yet, but our people are working on it from our end and I’m sure that your people will want to pursue it from the ground level as well.” As Lucius said this Harvey leaned in through the cracked open door.

“What is it, Harvey?”

“You know that car explosion that happened last night in the warehouse district? The whole damn scene is scattered with Valeska’s cult of crazies. ‘Looks like someone massacred his followers.”

Jim closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on and he hadn’t even finished his coffee yet.

“It gets worse. Blood from not only Valeska himself but from Oswald Cobblepot was found at the scene. It looks like the Penguin was being held there, maybe even tortured. Both of them appear to have escaped on foot.”

Jim set his coffee down and stared at the white plastic lid. This was definitely going to be one of those days. “Which means we could have a war on our hands. Have we identified the bodies from the rival gang?”

“That’s the crazy thing. There were no other bodies,” Harvey responded, just as surprised by that fact as anyone familiar with Jerome and his followers should be. It was simply unheard of. No one went up against Jerome Valeska without paying for it with at least a few casualties.

* * *

 

“Good morning, Dr. Valeska,” Alfred greeted as Jeremiah arrived for breakfast.

“Good morning,” Jeremiah replied distractedly. “Where’s the cat?”

Alfred turned away from the sink as if stuck on the verge of speech, while Bruce turned down the top of the newspaper he was reading to eye the newcomer taking a seat across from him. Both men seemed puzzled by his  _ non sequitur _ until Bruce figured it out. 

“Selina prefers to wake later in the day.”

“Hm,” Jeremiah hummed in acceptance, eyeing the tall stack of pancakes piled between his and Bruce’s seats at the table. There was fresh fruit, too, in a matching serving bowl beside it, a smaller bowl of  _ crème fraîche _ to accompany the fruit, and a smaller plate of appealingly steaming breakfast sausage. No red in sight this time; it appeared that Alfred was quick to adapt.

“And how do you take your coffee, Sir?” the Butler inquired politely. He was in a chipper mood this morning, but Jeremiah could feel a slight  _ impatience _ rolling off of him. He didn’t pry, focusing instead on Bruce’s  _ contentment  _ and the faint  _ chagrin  _ brought on by the opinion piece he was reading about his recent impact on the course of justice in Gotham.

“Black,” Jeremiah answered, watching the butler pour rich, brown ambrosia into a white china mug for him. Bruce let the top of his paper curl out of the way of his dark eyes again, watching expectantly. 

_ Amusement _ .

“Two sugars,” Jeremiah added belatedly. The corners of Bruce’s lips upturned slightly.

“Are you going to eat something? Best to get started while the food is still nice and warm,” Alfred suggested. 

With a polite smile, Jeremiah plated a couple of pancakes and fruit, then topped the resulting food-pile with a dollop of _crème fraîche_. He started in on his coffee.

“Company shares are still down since Jerome’s attack. Somehow it got out that his broadcast murder victim was one of our star engineering prodigies,” Bruce reported, going back to his perusal of the news.

Jeremiah hummed into his coffee.

_ Mild Jealousy. Guilt. Expectation. _

“Who even knew your true identity other than Ecco?” Bruce nudged, waiting. 

Jeremiah knew where he’d been going with this before Bruce first shared the basis for his interest. Sadly, Jeremiah was too caught up in his own concerns to address it, merely shrugging the question off. 

“I mean we were friends for a couple of years and you never even dropped a single hint,” Bruce built his case, “Whoever they are they must be important to you.”

“Mm.”

“Last night I turned into a giant bat and foiled your brother’s scheme to rule the world using hypnotic giggles,” Bruce dead-panned. Jeremiah took another meditative sip of his coffee, tracing the edges of the new-- wait, what? He blinked up at his friend’s unamused face. Bruce put down his paper with a questioning expression. Jeremiah set down his mug, repentant, and paused for a moment longer.

“Is something on your mind, Jeremiah?” Bruce prompted.

“I’m waiting for your girlfriend.”

Bruce frowned defensively, “We--” He stopped short, thrown off, as Selina trailed in rubbing at one sleepy eye with the back of her hand. Jeremiah plastered on an aggressively genial smile.

“At long last, sleeping beauty awakes!” he cooed cheerfully. “Well rested?”

She let her arm fall limply to her side, glowered at him, then made her way over to drop into the seat to Bruce’s left with a huff. Jeremiah’s forced cheer faltered, then with a devious smirk, he pushed the bowl of  _ crème fraîche _ her way meaningfully. She looked at the dairy offering, then up at him through narrowed eyes.

“Jeremiah?” Bruce reminded him.

Jeremiah sighed then tilted his head, submitting. “Two more minds were suddenly assimilated into Limetown last night. I can still feel them.”

_ Surprise _ .  _ Uncertainty _ .

“Limetown? I thought Limetown was all burned-- Wait, you mean your freaky head thing,” Selina deduced. Bruce turned to glance at her, disapproving of her insensitive delivery.

“As you so eloquently put it,” Jeremiah confirmed drily. “Two new minds were added to the network. I’m having trouble identifying them, which is peculiar at such close range. The signal is... different. It’s only allowing me to be aware of their presence without any passive communication. It must be a newer version of the technology.”

“How do you even know that’s what it is? Maybe there are just a couple more survivors that you didn’t know about and now they’re here in town,” Selina theorized tiredly.

“How many fingers do you have on your left hand?” Jeremiah retorted.

Selina’s brow creased at the odd question. “Five…”

“It’s like that.”

_ Concern. Wariness. _

“You said they were in close range?” Bruce tested.

“I don’t understand how they could even assimilate this quickly! Implantation alone--”

“Hey! Smartass!” Selina cut right through his distraction. “Answer the question: how close?”

“The closer of the two is about 15 miles away, I don’t believe they are aware that I’ve noticed them.” Jeremiah reported, refocusing pointedly on her face. “They’re both currently within Gotham’s city limits.”

“Will you be able to tell if they come any closer?” Bruce checked, already thinking the strange new development over tactically. They were both of similar minds when it came to the most likely theory as to the reason for their sudden appearance.

“I will,” Jeremiah replied both in answer to his question and as a promise. “I know: it could be a trap,” he responded aloud to Bruce’s internal train of thought. “I won’t attempt to make contact.”

* * *

 

Ecco watched from her hiding place behind a column of the overpass as Rassmueller got out of his dark green Land Rover to make a call on his latest burner. She couldn’t hear anything at this distance but from what she was able to read from his lips, he was talking to Captain Gordon, proposing a meet.

 Ecco wondered whether Emil’s ex-bodyguard had gone mad enough that he’d decided it was worth it to kill Gotham’s Police Captain already. That would be a shame, but she had to remain focused. Rassmueller finished his call and hung up. Ecco narrowed her eyes, no longer able to write it off as her imagination: he wasn’t blinking. After he ended his call, Rassmueler pulled a black, metal suitcase towards him from the passenger’s seat, Ecco leaned forward a little to get a clearer view of his face as he retrieved a dropper bottle and administered a couple drops to each eye. The liquid was strangely dark and his eyes almost seemed literally to shine brighter for a fraction of a second as the fluid made contact. She ducked back behind her pillar as he straightened, returned the bottle to the case and snapped the cell phone in half. She needed to know what was in that armored briefcase.

Rassmueller walked away to dump the burner phone in a garbage bin around the corner and Ecco hurried to his car. She slipped into the driver’s seat and opened the case, knowing that she had no time to work. There was a line of three slim, rectangular blue cases down the center and two lines of dropper bottles lining either side. Each of the blue, plastic cases had a familiar-looking serial number marking its label. It was the same type of code she remembered seeing on the case used to carry Jeremiah’s implant into the O. R. all those years ago, except that the word preceding each number was “Bridge” not “Limetown.” Ecco’s heart plummeted into her stomach even as she reasoned to herself that these cases were far too small to be implants. She opened the Bridge #R087-00108 -- empty apart from some antiseptic-smelling suspension fluid. Then Bridge #T077-00143, also wet but empty. Two down. Ecco opened Bridge #T080-00147… and scowled in puzzlement.

“Lenses?” She had no idea what she was looking at but it didn’t matter because Rassmuller had just rounded the corner of the building on his way back. Ecco hastily returned everything to its right place and slipped out of the car, vanishing just in time to avoid her enemy’s notice.

* * *

 

 

Jerome cracked his eyes open and sat up in the back of a dingy, rusted-out van and looked toward the front. He meant to clear his throat but it came out as a wet cough that taxed his battered ribs; the big guy had probably cracked one or two, judging by the feel of them.

“Pengy? Where are we?”

“On the move,” the little bird answered tightly. “I am taking us to regroup with a few trusted associates of mine.”

Jerome studied the splash of blood lining the visible side of Oswald’s face. “Nah, can’t do it. I gotta get back home.”

“That is a poor move. I doubt that that mercenary is truly working alone. There is strength in numbers--”

“Like I said, no can do. I got this pesky little brother I gotta’ deal with first. Ya’ can drop me wherever. I’m good on my--” 

Oswald slammed his foot down on the brake, abruptly sending the aloof redhead behind him careening into the back of his seat.

“Ow?” Jerome considered as he picked himself up from his painful lean. “ _ Great _ drivin’!” He chuckled.

“Listen, you Ginger Moron! You almost died last night! You have been out cold for most of the day--”

“Ooh, I hear that’s real bad for yer brain,” Jerome joked along, wearing his most enraging Cheshire grin. He couldn’t resist annoying his micromanaging prison pal when opportunities like this arose; it was way too funny!

“Will you be serious for one second!” the Penguin fumed.

“Hmm…” Jerome forced a cartoonish parody of seriousness, counted it off his head: one, one thousand, and responded “Nah, too boring! What else ya’ got?”

Oswald face-palmed, took a couple of deep breaths and probably counted down in his head, too. The guy was putting a lot of effort in. “Your brother is going to get us both killed! I know that I told you that I wouldn’t ask, but--”

“ _ But _ ?” just like that Oswald got his wish; Jerome was dead serious, eyeing him with a predator’s dark eyes, poised to strike. He popped the ‘t’ on the end of the word to give his buddy a cue to reconsider, waited. Oswald’s jaw clenched. He stared back. Jerome could practically see the cogs in the kingpin’s clever head turning in the silent pause, then Oswald squared his shoulders, chin jutting up in defiance.

“I’m asking.” 

Jerome’s hand wrapped around his throat faster than thought. He surged through the gap between seats to snarl directly into the other criminal’s ear, trapping him against the seat. Oswald coughed and squirmed against his stranglehold. 

“That’s disappointing. See, I really thought you an’ me had a good thing goin’. We understood each other, didn’t we?” He eyed Oswald’s reddening face as if it provided an answer. “Yeah, me too.” He brought his other hand around to grip the top of Oswald’s head. The smaller man went perfectly still. “It’s a damn shame, but ya’ know. I really do like you. Oh, the things we do for family.”

“W--t,” Oswald choked, grabbing Jerome’s forearm with trembling hands. Jerome blew out an impatient huff and loosened his grip.

“What?” he prompted flatly.

“You don’t have to do this! I can be useful to you!”

“Don’t care.” 

“You do, and you can trust me! How can I help you if I don’t understand what you’re up against?”

“Good point.” Jerome moved as if to continue with his previous neck snapping plan.

“W-wait! Wait!  _ Think _ ! I am the smartest person that you know!”

Jerome relaxed again, giving a little half-shrug in admission, “Eh, second smartest. So?”

“So, you want to keep me as a friend. I am a valuable asset! Simply tell me what you need and I will obtain it for you.”

“Ya’ know who Jere’s best friend is?”

Oswald gawked for a moment, struggling to keep up. “Huh?”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. The guy never even left his damn--”

“ _ Oh _ !” Oswald started laughing, a bit maniacally. Jerome frowned down at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“What was that you once said? A friend is someone who sticks their neck out for you even when they have no good reason to?”

“Like a unicorn,” Jerome acknowledged, not entirely following, but happy to hear him out. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that according to my sources, there is one person whose actions could fit that description. James Gordon isn’t the only one who’s been looking into Xander Wilde’s kidnapping,” Oswald informed his co-conspirator with a smug smile. “I’ve had my eyes on the street, looking out for anyone who might be coming after you ever since you brought Jeremiah home with you. You’re welcome, my  _ friend _ !” he stressed the last words with fevered force, laughing with a giddiness that almost rivaled Jerome’s preferred façade. Jerome let him free.

* * *

 

 

That night, Selina was awakened by sounds of movement somewhere close by and opened her eyes to squint at the dark shape, instantly awake and alert. 

“It’s fine. ‘S just me,” Jeremiah sleepily reassured, stumbling to his feet. He’d fallen asleep on the couch while Selina and Bruce argued over whether or not attempting to strike a deal with the Penguin was a stupid thing to do (which it is). Once they’d noticed that Jeremiah was down for the count, Selina had decided to claim the other couch for herself, figuring that if anyone actually did try to break in, it would be better to be downstairs where she could react immediately-- not that she cared what happened to Bruce’s weirdo friend or anything. She was just covering all her bases.

“What are you doing?” Selina groaned, not exactly thrilled to be woken up at… whatever time of night it still was. As if in response to her thought, Jeremiah paused to check his wristwatch by the light of the candle Alfred had left on the desk for them.

“4:45 in the morning,” he answered, reminding her that he in fact could and would respond to her thoughts as easily as if she’d spoken aloud. 

“Screw you.” Selina threw a pillow at him. 

Jeremiah stood still, allowing the golden throw pillow to bounce off of his side before responding, “The fire’s burned itself out and I’m cold. I’m heading to my room.”

Selina huffed. He had a point, but she knew that if she stayed downstairs she’d be able to hear when Alfred started to fix breakfast and maybe snatch an extra treat.

“I’ll grab you another blanket,” Jeremiah decided aloud, slipping out of the room before she could form a retort to defend her pride. She knew he’d done that on purpose; stupid brain-spying… whatever. Selina lay back down; it wasn’t worth a fight and at least she’d be warmer after he came back. It took slightly longer than she would’ve guessed before she heard the empath returning. Selina waited for him to come in and announce his presence verbally or just chuck the blanket at her and leave; instead the sounds of his footsteps abruptly ceased. Curious, she cracked an eye open to see Jeremiah standing in the doorway holding a violet velvet quilt that he must’ve grabbed off of the end of his bed; it was the same understated monochrome pattern as the royal blue one that rested at the foot of Bruce’s. 

Why wasn’t he moving? Selina sat up, studying Jeremiah as best she could in the dim lighting. There was an odd expression on his face and he was staring into the middle distance with a ridiculous amount of intensity. He looked like he was struggling to solve an extremely difficult equation in his head-- if said equation were also somehow trying to violently murder him at the same time.

“What is it?” 

“Does the Manor have other resident staff members that I wasn’t told about?” Jeremiah speculated.

Selina sat straight up, all thoughts of going back to sleep banished. “How many are we talking about?”

She saw Jeremiah absentmindedly mouthing numbers, his fingers curling one by one as he counted them off... on both hands.

“Shit!” Selina grabbed her whip and darted up over the coffee table to grab him by the shoulders --practically pounced-- forcing him to face her. “Where are they?”

Jeremiah made a face, irked. “Somewhere on the grounds? It’s unclear; This isn’t an exact--”

Shooting the escaped experiment an unimpressed look, Selina strode over to verify that both sets of French doors that Bruce habitually left open for her were now all securely closed and locked. Jeremiah was watching her, unguarded and compliant like a sitting duck. 

“Can you use that weird connection thing of yours to wake Bruce?”

“He’s gone,” Jeremiah dismissed.

“What do you mean ‘he’s gone’?!” Selina demanded. This was getting ridiculous.

“He left out his bedroom window while we were both asleep.” 

“What does he think he’s doing sneaking out this early in the morning?!”

“I suppose I could ask,” Jeremiah offered, possibly being sarcastic; sometimes it was hard to tell with him.

With a huff, Selina shoved him back towards the couch on her way out of the study.  The first thing on her to-do list was to shut and lock Bruce’s stupid window. Jeremiah sat right down with his hands folded primly in his lap, a small amused smile on his face as his eyes tracked her exit.

The kitchen was clear, the back door: locked. Garage: both internal and external doors were sealed. The doors to the patio, the pool, the greenhouse, the windows on the eastern wall, everything Selina checked seemed secure. Maybe she was just letting all of this guy’s freaky horror stories get to her head. That was it, all this crazy cult or conspiracy bullshit was making her paranoid; she was kicking herself for getting so worked up over it as she looped back around toward Bruce’s study, until a chilling sight stopped her cold and sent her crouching for cover in the protective shadow of the staircase. After all of the access points Selina had so dutifully double checked, in the end they burst in through the front. Fucking. Doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I just want to apologize for yet another unplanned delay. At least I wasn't hurt this time, only suddenly, unexpectedly very busy. I've learned that at this point I should probably stop making predictions regarding my posting schedule, so instead I simply hope that all will go well enough for the next post to be delivered promptly. I also hope that you found this episode to be worth the wait. Things are beginning to get serious now for our various cherished Gothamites ('cause Rassmueller don't play) Sorry, I'm tired... Until next chapter, I wish you all a lovely week.


	13. Episode Ten: Alliances

 

Jim sat in the surprisingly well-populated diner at an ungodly hour and waited for his mysterious new contact. He should be asleep right now, but the current state of his city sadly demanded that the Police Captain get no more sleep anytime soon. There was far too much going on, and Jim had a lingering sense that most of it tied into the disappearance of Jeremiah Valeska in one way or another. He just had to work out what the Hell it all meant.

“What’ll it be, Detective?” Marge, the owner of this fine, roach-friendly establishment asked as she made her way over to him. A wiry, strung-out looking patron who’d been shadowing her movements along the stained linoleum counter fell back to his faded orange stool to fiddle dejectedly with his congealing eggs.

“Just coffee for now, thanks,” Jim requested -- gruff, but polite. A familiar tank of human muscle slumped into the other side of his booth, creaking the wooden frame as much as the damaged pleather padding. Immediately, recognition threatened to twist the Detective’s mouth into a snarl.

“Breakfast special for me. I’d like my eggs over easy. Oh, and another coffee,” the criminal tacked onto his order -- too bright and cheery for this dismal time and place. Jim arched his eyebrows at him, in no mood. “Thanks, Marge,” the other man finished, giving the tired woman a disarming smile. Suddenly, the guy was all soft and easy, an overgrown Teddy bear. If he thought he was fooling Jim after their last encounter, the guy had another thing coming-- maybe a boot up his ass.

Marge smiled --fooled-- and poured each man a mug of coffee. “No problem. You like cream?” She was already pouring a splash of it into Jim’s cup, having memorized his preference.

“Not for me.”

“Mm-hm.” Marge headed over to yell at her cook. “Hey, Sal! One special with a flop.”

Jim watched his supposed informant watch her, then opened his mouth to speak.

“Yes. I’m the one who called you about Jeremiah Valeska’s kidnapping,” the other man stated, beating him to the punch. “And you’re right: there’s a lot more going on here than just some psychopath’s fraternal grudge.”

“I guess this is the part where you tell me what’s really going on between the Valeska twins,” Jim prompted, impatient to get to the point and escape to somewhere with less harsh fluorescent lighting.

“Those two?” the informant chuckled heartily. “Nah, I think that’s all just family drama.”

“Over the phone you said you knew the truth about Jeremiah Valeska. I suggest that you give me some proof that you aren’t wasting my time before I decide to arrest you for evidence tampering and sort the rest out at the station.”

“I do know the truth, but you aren’t ready for all of it yet. What I can tell you is that he’s on the run from some very bad people. He and his sister both have been hiding from them for about a decade.”

“His  _ sister _ ?” Jim questioned, trying to find clues in the stranger’s face. He could glean nothing more than wariness and slight lack of sleep. The guy had worry lines permanently etched across his brow, but also pleasant creasing around his eyes indicating frequent smiles. He didn’t blink enough. He also didn’t appear to be an unpleasant personality type, but Jim had learned from his years policing Gotham City that looks often deceive.

“Harleen. You know her as Ecco. Look, it’s not their fault; they just got adopted into the wrong family. I knew them before. They were good kids, but their parents got them tangled up in some dangerous business. If I don’t get to them first, they’ll be worse than dead. We have to keep them away from the enemy.”

Jim frowned at him. “What kind of ‘dangerous business’ are we talking about?”

“Above your pay grade. I can’t go into it with you out here. These people have eyes everywhere.”

“You have to give me something to work with,” Jim persisted, unwilling to budge an inch until he had some evidence that this guy was who he said he was. For all Jim knew, he could simply be using him to get at the kid.

“I can’t.”

“We’re done here,” Jim concluded with a grimace, starting to get up. The larger man grabbed his forearm, pinning it to the table. 

“Okay! Okay, fine. My name is Daniel, I used to be a bodyguard before all of  _ this _ . I looked after Jeremiah when he was a little boy,” Daniel confessed in a tight-sounding undertone. “It was my job to keep him safe, but I failed. I lost track of him in the fight. One of their contractors grabbed him. By the time that I realized--” Daniel squeezed his eyes shut briefly, ashamed, then forced himself to meet Jim’s eyes. His gaze was pleading -- for absolution perhaps? Understanding? It was hard to tell. Whatever it was, he bit it back and continued on, determined. “I was too late back then. I don’t know how they escaped, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is that Jerome Valeska’s little freak show exposed them all over again and I need to get to Jeremiah before they do. There is no fighting these people, Captain Gordon. Their resources are endless.” Daniel shook his head. “You still need evidence to believe me? Just look into that power outage last night. I’d bet my life that it wasn’t an accident. They’re testing their reach and we are rapidly running out of time before they decide to move in for the kill.”

* * *

 

“I’m warning you: if you harm so much as a hair on that boy’s head, I will have your hide! Do you hear me?” Alfred threatened, as one of Barbara’s new followers tied cords around the unconscious Jeremiah’s wrists and secured him to his chair facing the Butler. He had  _ tried _ to hide, but that pink shirt he was wearing might as well glow in the dark for how bright it was, not that Alfred was one to judge.

“You mean like this?” Tabitha inquired, slapping Jeremiah across the face. She’d knocked his glasses right off his face.

“Hwah…” Jeremiah breathed and shook his head, blinking rapidly. Tabitha crouched over him, grabbing his jaw in a too-firm grip and jerking his face up towards hers.

“Jeremiah, right? Or do you prefer Xander?” She yanked his face even closer to hers, eliciting a wince. “I saw you die on live TV. Nice trick.”

“I know what you’re going to ask me,” Jeremiah breathed out, hanging limp from some combination of disorientation and submission. He seemed to be reverting back to Xander Wilde’s shy manner in his fright.

“I doubt that.”

“My brother is a notorious psychopath,” he paused to drag in a shaky breath, only worrying Alfred more. The boy’s terror was accentuated by the stark dark-and-light of his lined brows and painted lips against his powder-white face, making him a living caricature of himself. “Yet, he spared my life by faking my death… He allowed me to escape. S-someone else must’ve hired you to acquire--”

“No. We’re here to kill you and deliver your head to our client,” Tabitha corrected sharply. In his seat behind her, Alfred struggled furiously against the ropes tying him to his chair. Jeremiah studied the assassin’s face. 

“I think you’re smarter than that, Tabby; you want to know why--”

She unsheathed a long, curved dagger from her thigh-high boot and pressed it to his throat. “You don’t call me that!”

“Okay! Okay, I’m sorry,” Jeremiah pleaded, panicked and pitiful. “Listen, I have done nothing to harm you!”

“You were willing to work with that monster, Jerome; you’re fair game as far as I’m concerned,” Tabitha retorted coldly, studying his face. The poor lad looked like he was about to cry. “You put on a good act,  _ Valeska _ , but you’re no damsel in distress. You’re a survivor; I can see it in your eyes.”

Jeremiah kept staring up at her, trembling and timid for another second, then as if a switch had been flipped, his fear faded from a bland, affectless face. 

“Oh, fair enough,” Jeremiah gave a little half-shrug. “You’ve caught me, Miss  _ Galavan _ ,” he sassed, suddenly above it all. “I suppose if being born into the wrong bloodline is a sin, you must be quite the demon.”

Tabitha pulled her blade away from his neck and stood to loom over his chair as if that alone could regain her the higher ground. “Tell me: why was I hired to deliver your head?”

“Hmm, that  _ is _ a conundrum,” Jeremiah drawled sarcastically. “It’s almost as if someone’s trying to keep a secret.” He sounded bored, but now that he’d recovered from his shock, Alfred noticed the boy’s white-knuckled grip on his armrests. Ms. Galavan was right about one thing: Jeremiah was a bloody convincing actor, just not in the way she had assumed.

“Tell me all about it and maybe my friends and I will consider letting you go,” Tabitha offered with mock generosity.

“You think that knowledge is power,” the Limetown survivor diagnosed. “Usually, I’d be the first to agree… “ Jeremiah pressed his burgundy lips together with another dismissive, one-shouldered shrug. 

“You don’t think I’m going to kill you?” Tabitha sneered at his perceived overconfidence.

“Oh. I think you’re going to try.”

Tabitha shook her head in disbelief. “You’re as nuts as your brother.” She pressed the dagger to Jeremiah’s throat again, about to slice him open and be done with it.

“No! Wait!” Alfred shouted, demanding her attention, only for Jeremiah’s next words to steal it back. He was grinning up at her-- not his usual guarded, close-lipped smile. His eyes were oddly emotionless in his otherwise exuberant face. 

“One more thing. I suggest that you take a look around. Go on, have a peek!” Jeremiah coaxed, almost playfully. The assassin narrowed her eyes at him, becoming uncertain as he began to sing  _ “One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong…” _

Tabitha peered around the room, taking in the three League members behind him all robed in dark fabric, their faces shrouded behind black head-scarves, the many priceless antiques and expensive fixtures.

_ “...Can you tell me which thing is not like the others by the time I finish my song?”  _ As Jeremiah’s corruption of a Sesame Street song verse reached its finish, Tabitha’s eyes shifted in the direction of the fourth, scarf-shrouded woman positioned behind her, to the Butler’s left. She was smaller than the others. “Guess not.” 

Tabitha whirled on the spot to hurl her knife in the same instant that a whip lashed out, wrapping around her wrist. The pretender cut Alfred’s bindings, then used the arm of his chair as a step, wrapped her legs around Tabitha’s neck and flipped them over the end of the couch, body-slamming Tabitha onto the coffee table. Their camouflaged ally lashed her whip around the nearest assassin’s throat, ramming the latter’s head against the mantelpiece while punching Tabitha in the jaw with her other hand. Alfred rugby-tackled another while she was drawing her sword. Jeremiah was overcome by a fit of strange, wheezing giggles that drew his rescuer’s perplexed attention for a moment. It was enough opening for the remaining assassin to yank her whip out of her grasp and drag her off of Tabitha. She stole the woman’s dagger out of its sheath on her belt and stabbed her with it, then hurled it into the shoulder of the assassin who would‘ve otherwise slit her oddly behaving ally’s throat. The assassin, grappling on the floor with Alfred, managed to slash their rescuer’s side with her sword, earning a nasty downward punch in the mouth for her troubles. Tabitha rolled to her feet and moved to stab the smaller woman, but she unwrapped her headscarf and wound it around Tabitha’s stabbing hands in a quick, graceful spin. 

“Selina?! You aren’t supposed to be here!” Tabitha objected, sounding hypocritically reproachful. Then she saw her wounded compatriot dragging herself upright by the mantelpiece and drawing her sword to strike Selina down from behind. “No!”

Selina turned her head to look. Alfred hauled himself to his feet too late to intervene. They both flinched from three loud gunshots erupting into the room, ending the fight without warning. The three assassins who weren’t Tabitha all dropped to the floor, dead, as high-pitched, maniacal laughter revealed the identity of their killer. Selina’s eyes widened and she released the improvised restraints trapping Tabitha’s hands. 

“Shit! Run!”

Tabitha didn’t hesitate, bolting out onto the balcony and leaping over the railing while Selina hurried over to free Jeremiah from his bindings.

“Bruce?” Alfred asked, positioning himself between them and the nearest doorway, sword raised.

Selina shook her head.

“Good,” Alfred remarked. At least one thing had gone right this morning.

 Jerome strutted into the room, pointing a sawed off shotgun at Alfred’s chest.

“Ha! Put em’ up!” Jerome directed jubilantly. Alfred glared and didn’t budge an inch. Selina slowly raised her hands, wincing when the movement irritated her injury. “Good Kitty.” Jerome looked to Alfred, crooning “Naughty Butler!”

“I don’t answer to lunatics like you.”

Jerome leered. “Ya just did. So! Is Brucie around?”

“No,” Jeremiah replied with unwise haste, drawing a leery squint from Selina.

“Huh. That sounds like a lie! You’ve really gotta work on that,” Jerome advised his docile twin still seated in the out-of-place dining room chair. “Hey, Pengy! Grab the Wayne kid for me, would ya?”

“I am  _ not _ your henchman!” the mobster’s voice snapped from the dark hallway behind him. 

Jerome cleared his throat loudly. 

“Fine! I want it acknowledged that I am doing this under extreme duress!”

Jerome rolled his eyes, tilting his head back and forth sarcastically while his cohort complained.

“You have been taking my kindness for granted, Jerome! And my patience will only extend so far...” the Penguin went on like that as his voice faded down the hall.

“Yeah, yeah…” the subject of his ire muttered, more or less under his breath.

“You two need a minute alone?” Selina quipped.

“Shut up an’ gimme what’s mine.”

“Did you just call me a--” Jeremiah disapproved. Selina shushed him. The green-haired youth let his head loll melodramatically back against her, but Selina hip-checked his attempt.

“He’s not goin’ anywhere with you, Sunshine,” Alfred denied, ignoring their empty bickering, as usual. Jerome laughed darkly and pumped his shotgun.

“He’s a little tied up at the moment. I’d help, but he ain’t worth gettin’ shot over,” Selina drawled, which was rather brave considering their circumstances.

“I am right here!” Jeremiah retorted, pouting.

“So?” Selina snarked back, then addressed his twin, “You want him?” she stepped away to stand with her back against the locked balcony doors. “Take him.”

“Ms. Kyle! Do you have no sense of common decency?!” Alfred scolded.

“He ain’t  _ my _ best friend,” the thief disregarded, heartless as ever.

“Put it down, Pops,” Jerome directed, certain of his victory. Alfred stubbornly stood his ground for another second before begrudgingly lowering his weapon. Jerome marched over to his brother and tore him free of the chair, dragging him upright to hold him pressed against his side. “Well, it’s been fun catchin’ up, but we’d better dash!”

There was a distant crash and a muffled cry of pain. Jerome scowled.

“Pengy?”

“You were right,” Jeremiah confessed. “Bruce  _ is _ back,” with that he grabbed Jerome’s gun and headbutted him while Selina snatched her whip off the floor.  Alfred grabbed the saner Valeska’s arm and shoved him towards her. 

“Run!” he ordered, surging forward to tackle the madman before he could recover. There was a metallic sound. Two of the remaining assassins seemed to have looped back around in time to tangle with the returning Master Wayne out in the hall.

“Bruce!” Jeremiah hesitated in the balcony exit. 

“He can handle himself. Now come on!” Selina urged, dragging him out after her by the back of his shirt.

* * *

 

Bruce had just slipped in through the window of the shadowed lounge at the Penguin’s mansion when he felt Jeremiah’s presence filter into his consciousness. 

“They’re here! Eight of them! Selina hasn’t come back.”

It hadn’t taken any further prompting. Bruce made a beeline for his hidden car parked out of sight on the other side of the outer gate and sped home. This was all happening too quickly. The Manor should have been perfectly safe. Hardly anyone knew that Jeremiah was even alive, let alone with Bruce. No one but the four of them was supposed to know that he was at Wayne Manor, so, how could this be happening? Bruce barely had the presence of mind to shift his car into silent mode as he neared his property. There were two polished black sedans parked just out of sight of the main house. Bruce glared at them as he drove past. He was pretty sure he recognized them from the night he’d fought Ra’s at the Siren’s Club. 

“Barbara,” he growled out, feeling cheated, yet not all that surprised. Barbabra Kean used to be a good and trustworthy person, but that was a long time ago. He slipped out of his Mustang, pulling his hood up to better hide himself in the darkness and padded silently towards the outer wall. Selina must be pissed, he realized halfway up the wall towards his second story window. Barbara was supposed to be her friend. Jeremiah had said that Selina hadn’t come back; that had better not mean that she was hurt or-- No. He wasn’t even going to consider that. Selina was one of the toughest people he knew; she could survive this. 

Bruce reached the window and bit back an annoyed grumble. Someone had shut it and locked him out. Thanks a lot, Selina. He knew for a fact that Alfred knew better. Gunfire erupted inside the building and Bruce unhappily accepted that he was going to need to break into his own damn mansion. He curled into a tightly coiled crouch and waited. There was a voice coming from somewhere inside, barely enough for him to hear. Bruce closed his eyes and felt Jeremiah’s consciousness bloom back into his awareness.

_ “I’m outside, but I’m locked out,” _ Bruce thought at him.  _ “I’ll have to break glass to come in.” _

“Wait. Cobblepot’s headed toward you. The assassins appear to be dealt with.”

“Cobblepot?” Bruce muttered out loud in his surprise.

“Hush now. Jerome has us at gunpoint.”

Bruce nearly threw caution to the wind and burst in right then and there.

“Are we not waiting until your girlfriend’s out of the line of fire?” Jeremiah sarcastically questioned, causing Bruce to catch himself just in time. “You’re welcome... Bitch!”

Bruce’s face scrunched in a quizzical expression.

“Not you.”

It wasn’t worth pursuing.  _ “What are  _ **_you_ ** _ going to do?” _

“Think of something?” That did nothing to reassure Bruce.

_ “Don’t get yourself shot either,” _ he advised, watching the Penguin’s silhouette limp into view on the other side of the glass.

“Distraction, please?” Jeremiah prompted. Bruce smashed his way in through the glass to tackle the intruding mobster, thankful as ever for his custom-made body armor. Cobblepot cried out in pained surprise, grabbing his gun. Bruce knocked him out with a single punch, disarmed him, ejected the clip and dropped it onto it’s unconscious owner before darting downstairs. Two female assassins from the fractured League of Shadows cut him off on the lower landing. Bruce blocked the larger woman’s sword with Penguin’s empty gun, only to discard his small impromptu shield by throwing it into the other approaching killer’s face. He caught the first woman’s hand on the hilt with his free hand in the next breath and struck her hard under the elbow, breaking her arm at the joint while sending a spinning kick into the other assassin’s chest. Bruce had just enough time to grab the fallen sword and strike its owner in the head with the hilt, before turning to shield the second assassin’s attacking knives with the blade. He kicked out again. This time she blocked it, then stabbed him in the thigh with her other twin dagger. Bruce cried out in pain and shoved her away, then began to whirl like a dervish, slashing his sword unceasingly in defensive arcs as another assassin joined the fray. With a brutal lunge and twist of his sword, he managed to wound the dagger-weilding assassin’s side, ramming her against a side table. Her sister-in-arms scraped her sword down his back, the friction drawing sparks from his armor as she forced her blade in through the tight seam. Bruce let out an angry, pain-laced yell and whirled to slash down her arm. Gripping the side of her scarf, he rammed her head against the wall, once, then twice, knocking her out. With a grunt he caught himself against the wooden panelling, out of breath.

“Ah!” Bruce winced and gingerly touched the gash down the small of his back where his last attacker had managed to push the tip of her sword through his body armor. It wasn’t too deep, but it stung. With a grim frown, Bruce marched -- limped -- toward the study, calling, “Alfred?”

When he reached the doorway, Bruce found Jerome grappling on the floor with his Butler. The former was crouched on top of his elder, reaching for a shotgun scant centimeters past his fingertips. Alfred was holding him back by a hand clenched around the knot of his polka dotted tie. Jerome had Alfred’s other wrist pinned beside his head. It was pretty much a draw. Bruce walked up to them, working to catch his breath, and rested the tip of his sword on the criminal’s shoulder in a silent threat. He doubted that he would actually slit Jerome’s throat if it came down to it. That wasn’t as certain as it should be, if Bruce were being perfectly honest. He was still furious with this murderer for...  _ everything _ .

“It’s over,” Bruce stated, voice rough and raw. “Let him go.”

“Ya gonna kill me, Brucie?” Jerome mocked, turning his head to grin up at him in challenge. His dark eyes flickered up and down in a quick once-over and his expression edged an iota nearer to serious. “Rough night?”

“You led assassins into my home,” Bruce rasped out, not quite managing to maintain his preferred level of stoicism. It was inescapable; he was too angry.

Jerome snorted in amusement, but his tone of voice came out surprisingly reasonable. “Yeah, right. _ I  _ did that. Then how’d these lovely ladies get here first, huh?”

“You talked,” Bruce accused, offering his bedraggled Butler a hand up off the floor. “Are you okay? Where are the others?”

“I’m quite alright, Master B,” Alfred replied, ignoring Jerome’s immature snicker. “I held this one off while they made a run for it.”

Bruce nodded, “Thank you, Alfred.” Jerome straightened to his full height and batted the blade away from his chin, looking smug when Bruce allowed it. “Who have you told?!”

“Uh, hmmm. That’d be…” Jerome mimed an exaggerated thinking pose then smirked at him. “Oh! Got it:  _ nobody _ ,” the last word was dark and menacing, as if accusing Bruce in turn.

“Selina and I haven’t spoken a word about this to anyone and I know I can trust Alfred to keep a secret.” Bruce narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “How did  _ you _ know to come here?”

Jerome’s sharklike eyes scrutinized Bruce, then he returned to his usual devil-may-care attitude with a shrug. “Pengy figured it out-- Well, and Ecco -- rest in peace or whatever.”

“You murdered your brother’s bodyguard!” Alfred rebuked.

“Nah,” Jerome waved dismissively. “Kidnapper blew ‘er up. Yesterday’s news. Did ya kill Cobblepot?” he casually asked Bruce.

“He’s unconscious.” Bruce looked to Alfred, adding apologetically “I left him upstairs.”

“Bloody Hell!” Alfred circled back to retrieve Jerome’s gun and hurried off to deal with the injured mobster.

“Oooh,  _ trusting _ ,” Jerome purred, stepping towards Bruce.

“We need to find Jeremiah again before they do,” he diverted, standing his ground.

There was loud engine rumble from outside, then the screeching of brakes and a crash. Both men looked at each other for an answer, finding none. Jerome held up a hand in a half-hearted gesture.

“Hold that thought.” 

They both made their way towards the front of the house and the new, potential threat. A slender, hooded figure jogged into the house, headed straight for them, then shrugged off her ragged disguise at the sight of them.

“Where’s Jeremiah?” Ecco demanded, a tad breathily.

“He and Selina escaped during the attack,” Bruce informed the arriving bodyguard without missing a beat. “They should call once they’re sure it’s safe.”

“Hiya, Punkin! So, you’re alive! Good for you!” Jerome greeted cheerfully, taking a step closer, his gaze roaming appreciatively over her body. Ecco observed this impassively and resumed interrogating Bruce. 

“You’re sure he made it out safely?”

“Positive, he had the presence of mind to help me time my entry.”

Ecco nodded curtly.

Jerome scowled, “Huh?”

Bruce would’ve said more but in the next second, Ecco was backing into an open doorway behind them and out of sight. Bruce watched her, then followed her eyeline to Alfred helping the Penguin down the stairs.

“Take him to the kitchen,” Bruce suggested. “We can discuss the situation there while we treat his injuries.”

“Are you sure about this?” Alfred questioned. Penguin’s shrewd eyes were squinting back and forth at each of them, trying to read between the lines of their exchange.

“We may need help if we’re going to find Selina and Jeremiah before  _ they _ do,” Bruce stated cryptically, his composure back under his will.

“Kitchen? Sounds good,” Jerome threw an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, ignoring the acid stare it earned him “Who are we talking about?”

“Why don’t you help your friend get to the kitchen?” Bruce suggested rhetorically.

“The Butler’s got it.”

In simmering silence Bruce walked with the others into the kitchen. He could just barely hear Ecco sneaking around at the back of their group and considered mentioning it. He didn’t. Bruce had no desire to ruin it if she had a plan to rid them of the maniacs currently invading his home.

“You know, ya never answered my question,” Jerome prodded as he dropped into a chair at the table across from Bruce.

“Will you shut up! My head is killing me,” Cobblepot complained. Jerome passively watched the blonde silently creeping up behind his prison buddy, which was somewhat out of character. Regardless, it was probably for the best, considering his temperament. The Penguin looked up and noticed both Jerome and Bruce appeared eerily focused on him, the former’s devious smile likely worrying him most. “What are you staring--Oof!”

Ecco knocked him out with a two-handed strike across the back of his head.

“What did you do that for?” Alfred inquired, too tired to be astonished at this point.

Ecco held up a hand to quiet the room and turned her victim onto his back. She pried one of the Penguin’s eyes open, then reached out and pointed to a glass half full of water sitting near Bruce’s place at the table. Jerome grabbed it first and handed it over. Ecco poured a tiny amount of water into Cobblepot’s eye and a fluorescent digital design lit up over his lens briefly before fading out of sight. With extreme care, Ecco removed a hidden contact lens from the mobster’s eye, then repeated the process on the other, dropping both into the glass.

“Now we can talk,” she pronounced.

“What are these?” Bruce wondered, picking up the glass to stare at the iridescent contacts suspended within.

“I’m not sure, but it’s based on Limetown tech. Daniel was carrying around a briefcase with more of these in his SUV. I think that was his real play all along, to implant Oswald covertly and use him to keep an eye on us.”

“Haha! Keep an eye on us,” Jerome chuckled. “Good one!”

Ecco didn’t quite manage to hide her smile.

“The people who put that device in Jeremiah’s head are tracking down the surviving subjects. Whoever sent these assassins was obviously working for them,” Bruce explained. “If we don’t figure out how to stop this ‘Daniel’ and whoever else they’ve sent after Jeremiah...”

“We’re  _ all _ as good as dead,” Ecco finished the thought for him. “You’ve already involved yourself too deeply. If they really are cleaning house, even knowing about us could be enough to make you a target. Give me your leg.”

After some minor hesitation, Bruce relinquished his injured thigh for the medical professional’s perusal.

“You guys have a med kit around here somewhere?” Ecco requested.

“One moment, Doctor,” Alfred bustled off to retrieve the requested supplies.

“We can win this if we work together,” Bruce thought aloud, unenthusiastic about the thought of working towards any goal alongside Jerome Valeska. “There has to be a way to beat these people!”

“You want to help me find Jere,” Jerome artfully rephrased. Bruce was not amused.

“I’m going to save my friends with or without you,” he retorted stubbornly. “If you truly care about Jeremiah, you’ll help us bring his torturers to justice, or at least stay out of our way until he’s safe.”

“Which is when you’re gonna sic the cops on me,” Jerome noted.

Ecco nodded in casual agreement.

“And you’re probably going to try to kidnap me,” Bruce pointed out. 

Jerome laughed and strangely, it almost sounded normal for once. He offered Bruce his hand to shake on it.

“Ya got yourself a deal!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode came out 2 pages shorter than I usually aim for with the full episodes, but I'd like to think it still works. We can be a little flexible about length, right? Right?   
> If you'd rather I keep 'em consistently longer they may take a little longer--depends on your overall preference, so, let me know what you think?


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